THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


I 


. 


•MR 


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ytu 


FRONTISPIECE. 


PAGB  123. 


DANGER; 


WOUNDED  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  FRIEND, 


T.    S.    ARTHUR. 

AUTHOR  or  "THRKK  YBAKS  IN  A  MAW-TRAP."  "CAJTT  AUKIFT, 
"TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A  BAR-ROOM,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY 
142  TO  150  WORTH  STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1875,  BY  J.  M.  STODDARI  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 


ALL  efforts  at  eradicating  evil  must,  to  be  succea&iuj 
begin  as  near  the  beginning  as  possible.  It  is  ez*cier  U 
destroy  a  weed  when  but  an  inch  above  the  ground  than 
after  it  has  attained  a  rank  growth  and  set  ita  hundred 
rootlets  in  the  soil.  Better  if  the  evil  seed  wtie  not  sown 
at  all ;  better  if  the  ground  received  only  good  seed  into 
its  fertile  bosom.  How  much  richer  and  sweeter  the 
harvest ! 

Bars  and  drinking-saloons  are,  in  reality,  not  so  much 
the  causes  as  the  effects  of  intempennce.  The  chief 
causes  lie  back  of  these,  and  are  to  be  found  in  our 
homes.  Bars  and  drinking-saloons  minister  to,  stimulate 
and  increase  the  appetite  already  formed,  and  give  accel 
erated  speed  to  those  whose  feet  have  begun  to  move 
along  the  road  to  ruin. 

In  "  THREE  YEARS  IN  A  MAN-TRAP"  the  author  of  this 
volume  uncovered  the  terrible  evils  of  the  liquor  traffic ; 
in  this  he  goes  deeper,  and  unveils  the  more  hidden 


4  Preface. 

sources  of  that  widespread  ruin  which  is  cursing  our  land 
From  the  public  licensed  saloon,  where  liquor  is  sold  to 
men — not  to  boys,  except  in  violation  of  law — he  turns 
to  the  private  home  saloon,  where  it  is  given  away  in  un 
stinted  measure  to  guests  of  both  sexes  and  of  all  ages, 
and  seeks  to  show  in  a  series  of  swiftly-moving  panoramic 
scenes  the  dreadful  consequences  that  flow  therefrom. 

This  book  is  meant  by  the  author  to  be  a  startling  cry 
of  "DANGER!"  Different  from  "THE  MAN-TRAP,"  as 
dealing  with  another  aspect  of  the  temperance  question, 
its  pictures  are  wholly  unlike  those  presented  in  that 
book,  but  none  the  less  vivid  or  intense.  It  is  given  as 
an  argument  against  what  is  called  the  temperate  use  of 
liquor,  and  as  an  exhibition  of  the  fearful  disasters  that 
flow  from  our  social  drinking  customs.  In  making  this 
argument  and  exhibition  the  author  has  given  his  best 
effort  to  the  work. 


WOUNDED  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  FRIEND 


CHAPTER  I. 

SNOW  had  been  falling  for  more  than  three  hours, 
the  large  flakes  dropping  silently  through  the 
still  air  until  the  earth  was  covered  with  an  even 
carpet  many  inches  in  depth. 

It  was  past  midnight.  The  air,  which  had  been 
so  still,  was  growing  restless  and  beginning  to  whirl 
the  snow  into  eddies  and  drive  it  about  in  an  angry 
kind  of  way,  whistling  around  sharp  corners  and 
rattling  every  loose  sign  and  shutter  upon  which  it 
could  lay  its  invisible  hands. 

In  front  of  an  elegant  residence  stood  half  3 
dozen  carriages.  The  glare  of  light  from  hall  and 
windows  and  the  sound  of  music  and  dancing  told 
of  a  festival  within.  The  door  opened,  and  a  group 
of  young  girls,  wrapped  in  shawls  and  waterproofs, 
came  out  and  ran,  merrily  laughing,  across  the  snow- 
covered  pavement,  and  crowding  into  one  of  the 
carriages,  were  driven  off  at  a  rapid  speed.  Follow 
ing  them  came  a  ypung  man  on  whqse  lip  and  cheeky 
the  downy  beard  had* scarcely  thrown  a  shadow. 
The  strong  light  of  the  vestibule  lamp  fell  upon  a 
handsome  face,  but  it  wore  an  unnatural  flush, 


6  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

There  was  an  unsteadiness  about  his  movements  as 
he  descended  the  marble  steps,  and  he  grasped  the 
iron  railing  like  one  in  danger  of  falling.  A  waiter 
who  had  followed  him  to  the  door  stood  looking  at 
him  with  a  half-pitying,  half-amused  expression  on 
his  face  as  he  went  off,  staggering  through  the  blind 
ing  drift. 

The  storm  was  one  of  the  fiercest  of  the  season, 
and  the  air  since  midnight  had  become  intensely 
cold.  The  snow  fell  no  longer  in  soft  and  filmy 
flakes,  but  in  small  hard  pellets  that  cut  like  sand 
and  sifted  in  through  every  crack  and  crevice  against 
which  the  wild  winds  drove  it. 

The  young  man — boy,  we  might  better  say,  for  he 
was  only  nineteen — moved  off  in  the  very  teeth  of 
this  storm,  the  small  granules  of  ice  smiting  him  in 
the  face  and  taking  his  breath.  The  wind  set  itself 
against  him  with  wide  obstructing  arms,  and  he 
reeled,  staggered  and  plunged  forward  or  from  side 
to  side  in  a  sort  of  blind  desperation. 

"  Ugh !"  he  ejaculated,  catching  his  breath  and 
standing  still  as  a  fierce  blast  struck  him.  Then, 
shaking  himself  like  one  trying  to  cast  aside  an 
impediment,  he  moved  forward  with  quicker  steps, 
and  kept  onward  for  a  distance  of  two  or  three 
blocks.  Here,  in  crossing  a  street,  his  foot  struck 
against  some  obstruction  which  the  snow  had  con 
cealed,  and  he  fell  with  his  face  downward.  It  took 
some  time  for  him  to  struggle  to  his  feet  again,  and 
then  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  complete  bewilder- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  j 

ment,  for  he  started  along  one  street,  going  for  a 
short  distance,  and  then  crossing  back  and  going  in 
an  opposite  direction.  He  was  in  no  condition  to 
get  right  after  cnce  going  wrong.  With  every  few 
steps  he  would  stop  and  look  up  and  down  the  street 
and  at  the  houses  on  each  side,  vainly  trying  to 
make  out  his  locality. 

"  Police !"  he  cried  two  or  three  times ;  but  the 
faint,  alarmed  call  reached  no  ear  of  nightly  guar 
dian.  Then,  with  a  shiver  as  the  storm  swept  down 
upon  him  more  angrily,  he  started  forward  again, 
going  he  knew  not  whither. 

The  cold  benumbed  him ;  the  snow  choked  and 
blinded  him  ;  fear  and  anxiety,  so  far  as  he  was  capa 
ble  of  feeling  them,  bewildered  and  oppressed  him. 
A  helmless  ship  in  storm  and  darkness  was  in  no 
more  pitiable  condition  than  this  poor  lad. 

On,  on  he  went,  falling  sometimes,  but  struggling 
to  his  feet  again  and  blindly  moving  forward.  All 
at  once  he  came  out  from  the  narrow  rows  of  houses 
and  stood  on  the  edge  of  what  seemed  a  great  white 
field  that  stretched  away  level  as  a  floor.  Onward 
a  few  paces,  and  then —  Alas  for  the  waiting  mother 
at  home !  She  did  not  hear  the  cry  of  terror  that 
cut  the  stormy  air  and  lost  itself  in  the  louder  shriek 
of  the  tempest  as  her  son  went  over  the  treacherous 
line  of  snow  and  dropped,  with  a  quick  plunge,  into 
the  river,  sinking  instantly  out  of  sight,  for  the  tide 
was  up  and  the  ice  broken  and  drifting  close  to  the 
water's  edge. 


CHAPTER  II. 

•*  /^OME,  Fanny,"  said  Mr.  Wilmer  Voss,  speak- 

V— '  ing  to  his  wife,  "  you  must  get  to  bed.  It  is 
past  twelve  o'clock,  and  you  cannot  bear  this  loss  of 
rest  and  sleep.  It  may  throw  you  all  back  again." 

The  woman  addressed  was  sitting  in  a  large  easy- 
chair  with  a  shawl  drawn  closely  about  her  person. 
She  had  the  pale,  shrunken  face  and  large,  bright 
eyes  of  a  confirmed  invalid.  Once  very  beautiful, 
she  yet  retained  a  sweetness  of  expression  which 
gave  a  tenderness  and  charm  to  every  wasted  feature. 
You  saw  at  a  glance  the  cultured  woman  and  the 
patient  sufferer. 

As  her  husband  spoke  a  fierce  blast  of  wind  drove 
the  fine  sand-like  snow  against  the  windows,  and 
then  went  shrieking  and  roaring  away  over  house 
tops,  gables  and  chimneys. 

"  Oh  what  a  dreadful  night !"  said  the  lady,  lean 
ing  forward  in  her  chair  and  listening  to  the  wild  wail 
of  the  storm,  while  a  look  of  anxiety,  mingled  with 
dread,  swept  across  her  face.  "  If  Archie  were  only 
at  home!" 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  Archie.  He'll  be 
here  soon.  You  are  not  yourself  to-night,  Fanny." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  can't  help  it.     I  feel  such  an 

8 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  9 

awful  weight  here ;"  and  Mrs.  Voss  drew  her  hands 
against  her  bosom. 

"  All  nervous,"  said  her  husband.  "  Come !  You 
must  go  to  bed." 

"  It  will  be  of  nc  use,  Wilmer,"  returned  the  lady. 
"  I  will  be  worse  in  bed  than  sitting  up.  You  don't 
know  what  a  strange  feeling  has  come  over  me.  Oh, 
Archie,  if  you  were  only  at  home!  Hark!  What 
was  that  ?" 

The  pale  face  grew  paler  as  Mrs.  Voss  bent  for 
ward  in  a  listening  attitude. 

"  Only  the  wind,"  answered  her  husband,  betray 
ing  some  impatience.  "  A  thousand  strange  sounds 
are  on  the  air  in  a  night  like  this.  You  must  com 
pose  yourself,  Fanny,  or  the  worst  consequences  may 
follow." 

"  It's  impossible,  husband.  I  cannot  rest  until  I 
have  my  son  safe  and  sound  at  home  again.  Dear, 
dear  boy!" 

Mr.  Voss  urged  no  further.  The  shadow  of  fear 
which  had  come  down  upon  his  wife  began  to  creep 
over  his  heart  and  fill  it  with  a  vague  concern. 
And  now  a  thought  flashed  into  his  mind  that  he 
would  not  have  uttered  for  the  world ;  but  from  that 
moment  peace  fled,  and  anxiety  for  his  son  grew  into 
alarm  as  the  time  wore  on  and  the  boy  did  not  come 
home. 

"  Oh,  my  husband,"  cried  Mrs.  Voss,  starting  from 
her  chair,  and  clasping  her  hands  as  she  threw  them 
upward,  "  I  cannot  bear  this  much  longer.  Hark ! 


IO  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

That  was  his  voice!  €  Mother  f  'Mother/'  Don't 
you  hear  it  ?" 

Her  face  was  white  as  the  snow  without,  her  eyes 
wild  and  eager,  her  lips  apart,  her  head  bent  for 
ward. 

A  shuddering  chill  crept  along  the  nerves  of  Mr. 
Voss. 

"  Go,  go  quickly  !  Run !  He  may  have  fallen  at 
the  door !" 

Ere  the  last  sentence  was  finished  Mr.  Voss  was 
halfway  down  stairs.  A  blinding  dash  of  snow 
came  swirling  into  his  face  as  he  opened  the  street 
door.  It  was  some  moments  before  he  could  see 
with  any  distinctness.  No  human  form  was  visible, 
and  the  lamp  just  in  front  of  his  house  shone  down 
upon  a  trackless  bed  of  snow  many  inches  in  depth. 
No,  Archie  was  not  there.  The  cry  had  come  to  the 
mother's  inward  ear  in  the  moment  when  her  boy 
went  plunging  down  into  the  engulfing  river  and 
heart  and  thought  turned  in  his  mortal  agony  to  the 
one  nearest  and  dearest  in  all  the  earth. 

When  Mr.  Voss  came  back  into  the  house  after 
his  fruitless  errand,  he  found  his  wife  standing  in  the 
hall,  only  a  few  feet  back  from  the  vestibule,  her  face 
whiter,  if  that  were  possible,  and  her  eyes  wilder 
than  before.  Catching  her  in  his  arms,  he  ran  with 
her  up  stairs,  but  before  he  had  reached  their  cham 
ber  her  light  form  lay  nerveless  and  unconscious 
against  his  breast. 

Doctor  Hillhouse,  the  old  family  physician,  called 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  1 1 

up  in  the  middle  of  that  stormy  night,  hesitated  to 
obey  the  summons,  and  sent  his  assistant  with  word 
that  he  would  be  round  early  in  the  morning  if 
needed.  Doctor  Angier,  the  assistant,  was  a  young 
physician  of  fine  ability  and  great  promise.  Hand 
some  in  person,  agreeable  in  manner  and  thoroughly 
in  love  with  his  profession,  he  was  rapidly  coming 
into  favor  with  many  of  the  old  doctor's  patients,  the 
larger  portion  of  whom  belonged  to  wealthy  and 
fashionable  circles.  Himself  a  member  of  one  of 
the  older  families,  and  connected,  both  on  his  father's 
and  mother's  side,  with  eminent  personages  as  well 
in  his  native  city  as  in  the  State,  Doctor  Angier  was 
naturally  drawn  into  social  life,  which,  spite  of  his 
increasing  professional  duties,  he  found  time  to 
enjoy. 

It  was  past  two  o'clock  when  Doctor  Angier  made 
his  appearance,  his  garments  white  with  snow  and 
his  dark  beard  crusted  with  tiny  icicles.  He  found 
Mrs.  Voss  lying  in  a  swoon  so  deep  that,  but  for 
the  faintest  perceptible  heart-beat,  he  would  have 
thought  her  dead.  Watching  the  young  physician 
closely  as  he  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his  wife,  Mr. 
Voss  was  quick  to  perceive  something  unusual  in  his 
manner.  The  professional  poise  and  coolness  for 
which  he  was  noted  were  gone,  and  he  showed  a 
degree  of  excitement  and  uncertainty  that  alarmed 
the  anxious  husband.  What  was  its  meaning  ?  Did 
it  indicate  apprehension  for  the  condition  of  his 
patient,  or — something  else  ?  A  closer  look  into  the 


12  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

young  physician's  face  sent  a  flash  of  suspicion 
through  the  mind  of  Mr.  Voss,  which  was  more  than 
confirmed  a  moment  afterward  as  the  stale  odor  of 
wine  floated  to  his  nostrils. 

"Were  you  at  Mr.  Birtwell's  to-night?"  There 
was  a  thrill  of  anxious  suspense  in  the  tones  of  Mr. 
Voss  as  he  grasped  the  physician's  arm  and  looked 
keenly  at  him. 

"  1  was,"  replied  Doctor  Angier. 

"  Did  you  see  my  son  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  At  what  time  did  you  leave  ?" 

"  Less  than  an  hour  ago.  I  had  not  retired  when 
your  summons  came." 

"Was  Archie  there  when  you  left?" 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  Are  you  sure  about  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  very  sure.  I  remember  now,  quite  dis 
tinctly,  seeing  him  come  down  from  the  dressing- 
loom  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  go  through  the 
hall  toward  the  street  door." 

"  How  long  ago  was  that  ?" 

"  About  an  hour  and  a  half;  perhaps  longer." 

A  groan  that  could  not  be  repressed  broke  from 
the  father's  lips. 

"  Isn't  he  at  home  ?"  asked  the  young  physician, 
turning  round  quickly  from  the  bed  and  betraying  a 
sudden  concern. 

"  No ;  and  I  am  exceedingly  anxious  about  him." 
The  eyes  of  Mr.  Voss  were  fixed  intently  on  Doctor 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  13 

Angler,  and  he  was  reading  every  varying  expression: 
of  his  countenance. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  physi 
cian's  arm  and  speaking  huskily,  "  I  want  you  to 
answer  me  truly.  Had  he  taken  much  wine  ?" 

It  was  some  moments  before  Doctor  Angier  re 
plied  : 

"  On  such  occasions  most  people  take  wine  freely. 
It  flows  like  water,  you  know.  I  don't  think  your 
son  indulged  more  than  any  one  else ;  indeed,  not 
half  so  much  as  some  young  men  I  saw  there." 

Mr.  Voss  felt  that  there  was  evasion  in  the  an 
swer. 

"  Archie  is  young,  and  not  used  to  wine.  A  single 
glass  would  be  more  to  him  than  half  a  dozen  to 
older  men  who  drink  habitually.  Did  you  see  him 
take  wine  often  ?" 

"  He  was  in  the  supper-room  for  a  considerable 
time.  When  I  left  it,  I  saw  him  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  young  men  and  girls,  all  with  glasses  of 
champagne  in  their  hands." 

"  How  long  was  this  before  you  saw  him  go 
away  ?" 

"  Half  an  hour,  perhaps,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Did  he  go  out  alone  ?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

Mr.  Voss  questioned  no  further,  and  Doctor  An 
gier,  who  now  understood  better  the  meaning  of  his 
patient's  condition,  set  himself  to  the  work  of  re 
storing  her  to  consciousness.  He  did  not  find  the 


14  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

task  easy.  It  was  many  hours  before  the  almost 
stilled  pulses  began  beating  again  with  a  perceptible 
stroke,  and  the  quiet  chest  to  give  signs  of  normal 
respiration.  Happily  for  the  poor  mother,  thought 
and  feeling  were  yet  bound. 

Long  before  this  the  police  had  been  aroused  and 
every  effort  made  to  discover  a  trace  of  the  young 
man  after  he  left  the  house  of  Mr.  Birtwell,  but  with 
out  effect.  The  snow  had  continued  falling  until 
after  five  o'clock,  when  the  storm  ceased  and  the  sky 
cleared,  the  wind  blowing  from  the  north  and  the 
temperature  falling  to  within  a  few  degrees  of  zero. 

A  faint  hope  lingered  with  Mr.  Voss — the  hope  that 
Archie  had  gone  home  with  some  friend.  But  as 
the  morning  wore  on  and  he  did  not  make  his  ap 
pearance  this  hope  began  to  fade  away,  and  died 
before  many  hours.  Nearly  every  male  guest  at 
Mrs.  Birtwell's  party  was  seen  and  questioned  during 
the  day,  but  not  one  of  them  had  seen  Archie  after 
he  left  the  house.  A  waiter  who  was  questioned 
said  that  he  remembered  seeing  him : 

"  I  watched  him  go  down  the  steps  and  go  off 
alone,  and  the  wind  seemed  as  if  it  would  blow  him 
away.  He  wasn't  just  himself,  sir,  I'm  afraid." 

If  a  knife  had  cut  down  into  the  father's  quivering 
flesh,  the  pain  would  have  been  as  nothing  to  that 
inflicted  by  this  last  sentence.  It  only  confirmed  his 
worst  fears. 

The  afternoon  papers  contained  a  notice  of  the  fact 
that  a  young  gentleman  who  had  gone  away  from  a 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          1 5 

fashionable  party  at  a  late  hour  on  the  night  before 
had  not  been  heard  of  by  his  friends,  who  were 
anxious  and  distressed  about  him.  Foul  play  was 
hinted  at,  as  the  young  man  wore  a  valuable  diamond 
pin  and  had  a  costly  gold  watch  in  his  pocket.  On 
the  morning  afterward  advertisements  appeared  offer 
ing  a  large  reward  for  any  information  that  would 
lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  young  man,  living  or 
dead.  They  were  accompanied  by  minute  descrip 
tions  of  his  person  and  dress.  But  there  came  no 
response.  Days  and  weeks  passed ;  and  though  the 
advertisements  were  repeated  and  newspapers  called 
public  attention  to  the  matter,  not  a  single  clue  was 
found. 

A  young  man,  with  the  kisses  of  his  mother  sweet 
on  his  pure  lips,  had  left  her  for  an  evening's  social 
enjoyment  at  the  house  of  one  of  her  closest  and 
dearest  friends,  and  she  never  looked  upon  his  face 
again.  He  had  entered  the  house  of  that  friend 
with  a  clear  head  and  steady  nerves,  and  he  had  gone 
out  at  midnight  bewildered  with  the  wine  that  had 
been  poured  without  stint  to  her  hundred  guests, 
young  and  old.  How  it  had  fared  with  him  the 
reader  knows  too  well. 


CHAPTER  III. 

u  T_T  EAVENS   and  earth !     Why  doesn't   some 

A  -I  one  go  to  the  door  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Spencer 
Birtwell,  rousing  himself  from  a  heavy  sleep  as  the 
hell  was  rung  for  the  third  time,  and  now  with  four 
or  five  vigorous  and  rapid  jerks,  each  of  which  caused 
the  handle  of  the  bell  to  strike  with  the  noise  of  a 
hammer. 

The  gray  dawn  was  just  breaking. 

41  There  it  is  again  !  Good  heavens  !  What  does 
it  mean  ?"  and  Mr.  Birtwell,  now  fairly  awake,  started 
up  in  bed  and  sat  listening.  Scarcely  a  moment  in 
tervened  before  the  bell  was  pulled  again,  and  this 
time  continuously  for  a  dozen  times.  Springing 
from  the  bed,  Mr.  Birtwell  threw  open  a  window,  and 
looking  out,  saw  two  policemen  at  the  door. 

"  What's  wanted  ?"  he  called  down  to  them. 

"Was  there  a  young  man  here  last  night  named 
Voss  ?"  inquired  one  of  the  men. 

"  What  about  him  ?"  asked  Mr.  Birtwell. 

"  He  hasn't  been  home,  and  his  friends  are  alarmed. 
Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?" 

"  Wait,"  returned  Mr.  Birtwell ;  and  shutting  down 
the  window,  he  dressed  himself  hurriedly. 

"What    is    it?"    asked    his    wife,  who    had   been 

16 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          ij 

awakened  from  a  heavy  slumber  by  the  noise  at  the 
window. 

"  Archie  Voss  didn't  get  home  last  night." 

"  What?"  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  started  out  of  bed. 

"  There  are  two  policemen  at  the  door." 

"Policemen!" 

"  Yes ;  making  a  grand  row  for  nothing,  as  if 
young  men  never  stayed  away  from  home.  I  must 
go  down  and  see  them.  Go  back  into  bed  again, 
Margaret.  You'll  take  your  death  o'  cold.  There's 
nothing  to  be  alarmed  about.  He'll  come  x.p  all 
right." 

But  Mrs.  Birtwell  did  not  return  to  her  bed.  With 
a  warm  wrapper  thrown  about  her  person,  she  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  stairway  while  her  husband  went 
down  to  admit  the  policemen.  All  that  could  be 
learned  from  them  was  that  Archie  Voss  had  not 
come  home  from  the  party,  and  that  his  friends  were 
greatly  alarmed  about  him.  Mr.  Birtwell  had  no 
information  to  give.  The  young  man  had  been  at 
his  house,  and  had  gone  away  some  time  during 
the  night,  but  precisely  at  what  hour  he  could  not 
tell. 

"  You  noticed  him  through  the  evening?"  said  one 
of  the  policemen. 

"  Oh  yes,  certainly.  We  know  Archie  very  well. 
He's  always  been  intimate  at  our  house." 

"  Did  he  take  wine  freely?" 

An  indignant  denial  leaped  to  Mr.  Birtwell's 
tongue,  but  the  words  died  unspoken,  for  the  image 
2*  B 


1 8  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

of  Archie,  with  flushed  face  and  eyes  too  bright  foi 
sober  health,  holding  in  his  hand  a  glass  of  sparkling 
champagne,  came  vividly  before  him. 

"  Not  more  freely  than  other  young  men,"  he  re 
plied.  "  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  There  are  two  theories  of  his  absence,"  said  the 
policeman.  "  One  is  that  he  has  been  set  upon  in 
the  street,  robbed  and  murdered,  and  the  other  that, 
stupefied  and  bewildered  by  drink,  he  lost  himself  in 
the  storm,  and  lies  somewhere  frozen  to  death  and 
hidden  under  the  snow." 

A  cry  of  pain  broke  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Birtwell, 
and  she  came  hurrying  down  stairs.  Too  well  did 
she  remember  the  condition  of  Archie  when  she  last 
saw  him — Archie,  the  only  son  of  her  oldest  and 
dearest  friend,  the  friend  she  had  known  and  loved 
since  girlhood.  He  was  not  fit  to  go  out  alone  in 
that  cold  and  stormy  night ;  and  a  guilty  sense  of 
responsibility  smote  upon  her  heart  and  set  aside  all 
excuses. 

"What  about  his  mother?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 
"  How  is  she  bearing  this  dreadful  suspense  ?" 

"  I  can't  just  say,  ma'am,"  was  answered,  "but  I 
think  they've  had  the  doctor  with  her  all  night — that 
is,  all  the  last  part  of  the  night.  She's  lying  in  a 
faint,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  it  will  kill  her!  Poor  Frances!  Poor 
Frances!"  wailed  out  Mrs.  Birtwell,  wringing  her 
hands  and  beginning  to  cry  bitterly. 

"  The  police  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  the  last 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  19 

two  or  three  hours,  but  can't  find  any  trace  of  him," 
said  the  officer. 

"  Oh,  he'll  turn  up  all  right,"  broke  in  Mr.  Birt> 
well,  with  a  confident  tone.  "  It's  only  a  scare.  Gone 
home  with  some  young  friend,  as  like  as  not.  Young 
fellows  in  their  teens  don't  get  lost  in  the  snow,  par 
ticularly  in  the  streets  of  a  great  city,  and  footpads 
generally  know  their  game  before  bringing  it  down. 
I'm  sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Voss ;  she  isn't  strong 
enough  to  bear  such  a  shock.  But  it  will  all  come 
right ;  I  don't  feel  a  bit  concerned." 

But  for  all  that  he  did  feel  deeply  concerned.  The 
policemen  went  away,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  sat 
down  by  an  open  grate  in  which  the  fire  still  burned. 

"  Don't  let  it  distress  you  so,  Margaret,"  said  the 
former,  trying  to  comfort  his  wife..  "  There's  nothing 
to  fear  for  Archie.  Nobody  ever  heard  of  a  man 
getting  lost  in  a  city  snow-storm.  If  he'd  been  out 
on  a  prairie,  the  case  would  have  been  different,  but 
in  the  streets  of  the  city  !  The  thing's  preposterous, 
Margaret." 

"  Oh,  if  he'd  only  gone  away  as  he  came,  I 
wouldn't  feel  so  awfully  about  it,"  returned  Mrs. 
Birtwell.  "  That's  what  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  To 
think  that  he  came  to  my  house  sober  and  went 
away — " 

She  caught  back  from  her  tongue  the  word  she 
would  have  spoken,  and  shivered. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Margaret,  nothing  of  the 
kind/'  said  her  husband,  quickly.  "A  little  gay — - 


2O  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

that  was  all.  Just  what  is  seen  at  parties  every 
night.  Archie  hasn't  much  head,  and  a  single  glass 
of  champagne  is  enough  to  set  it  buzzing.  But  it's 
soon  over.  The  effervescence  goes  off  in  a  little 
while,  and  the  head  comes  clear  again." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  did  not  reply.  Her  eyes  were  cast 
down  and  her  face  deeply  distressed. 

"  If  anything  has  happened  to  Archie,"  she  said, 
after  a  long  silence,  "  I  shall  never  have  a  moment's 
peace  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Nonsense,  Margaret !  Suppose  something  has 
happened  to  him  ?  We  are  not  responsible.  It's  his 
own  fault  if  he  took  away  more  wine  than  he  was 
able  to  carry."  Mr.  Birtwell  spoke  with  slight 
irritation.  • 

"  If  he  hadn't  found  the  wine  here,  he  could  not 
have  carried  it  away,"  replied  his  wife. 

"  How  wildly  you  talk,  Margaret !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Birtwell,  with  increased  irritation.  • 

"  We  won't  discuss  the  matter,"  said  his  wife.  "  It 
would  be  useless,  agreement  being,  I  fear,  out  of  the 
question  ;  but  it  is  very  certain  that  we  cannot  escape 
responsibility  in  this  or  anything  else  we  may  do, 
and  so  long  as  these  words  of  Holy  Writ  stand, 
'  Woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink,  that  put- 
teth  the  bottle  to  him  and  maketh  him  drunken'  we 
may  well  have  serious  doubts  in  regard  to  the  right 
and  wrong  of  these  fashionable  entertainments,  at 
which  wine  and  spirits  are  made  free  to  all  of  both 
sexes,  young  and  old." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          21 

Mr.  Birtwell  started  to  his  feet  and  walked  the 
flcor  with  considerable  excitement. 

"  If  we  had  a  son  just  coming  to  manhood — and  1 
sometimes  thank  God  that  we  have  not — would  you 
feel  wholly  at  ease  about  him,  wholly  satisfied  that 
he  was  in  no  danger  in  the  houses  of  your  friends  ? 
May  not  a  young  man  as  readily  acquire  a  taste  for 
liquors  in  a  gentleman's  dining-room  as  in  a  drinking- 
saloon — nay,  more  readily,  if  in  the  former  the  wine 
is  free  and  bright  eyes  and  laughing  lips  press  him 
with  invitations  ?" 

Mrs.  Birtwell's  voice  had  gained  a  steadiness  and 
force  that  made  it  very  impressive.  Her  husband 
continued  to  walk  the  floor,  but  with  slower  steps. 

"  I  saw  things  last  night  that  troubled  me,"  she 
went  on.  "  There  is  no  disguising  the  fact  that  most 
of  the  young  men  who  come  to  these  large  parties 
spend  a  great  deal  too  much  time  in  the  supper- 
room,  and  drink  a  great  deal  more  than  is  good  for 
them.  Archie  Voss  was  not  the  only  one  who  did 
this  last  evening.  I  watched  another  young  man 
very  closely,  and  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  left  our 
house  in  a  condition  in  which  no  mother  waiting  at 
home  could  receive  her  son  without  sorrow  an<! 
shame." 

"Who  was  that?"  asked  Mr.  Birtwell,  turning 
quickly  upon  his  wife.  He  had  detected  more  than 
a  common  concern  in  her  voice. 

"  Ellis,"  she  replied.     Her  manner  was  very  grave. 

"You   must   be   mistaken  about  that,"  said   Mr. 


22  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Birtwell,   evidently   disturbed   at   this    communica 
tion. 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  that  I  were !  But  the  fact  wis 
too  apparent.  Blanche  saw  it,  and  tried  to  get  him 
out  of  the  supper-room.  He  acted  in  the  silliest 
kind  of  a  way,  and  mortified  her  dreadfully,  poor 
child !" 

"  Such  things  will  happen  sometimes,"  said  Mr. 
Birtwell.  "Young  men  like  Ellis  don't  always  know 
how  much  they  can  bear."  His  voice  was  in  a  lower 
key  and  a  little  husky. 

"  It  happens  too  often  with  Ellis,"  replied  his  wife, 
"and  I'm  beginning  to  feel  greatly  troubled  about  it." 

"  Has  it  happened  before  ?" 

"  Yes ;  at  Mrs.  Gleason's,  only  last  week.  He  was 
loud  and  boisterous  in  the  supper-room — so  much  so 
that  I  heard  a  lady  speak  of  his  conduct  as  dis 
graceful." 

"That  will  never  do,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Birtwell, 
betraying  much  excitement.  "  He  will  have  to 
change  all  this  or  give  up  Blanche.  I  don't  care 
what  his  family  is  if  he  isn't  all  right  himself." 

"  It  is  easier  to  get  into  trouble  than  out  of  it," 
was  replied.  "Things  have  gone  too  far  between 
them." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  Blanche  will  never  throw  her 
self  away  on  a  man  of  bad  habits." 

"  No ;  I  do  not  think  she  will.  But  there  may  be, 
in  her  view,  a  very  great  distance  between  an  occa 
sional  glass  of  w;.ne  too  much  at  an  evening  party 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  23 

and  confirmed  bad  habits.  We  must  not  hope  to 
make  her  see  with  our  eyes,  nor  to  take  our  judg 
ment  of  a  case  in  which  her  heart  is  concerned. 
Love  is  full  of  excuses  and  full  of  faith.  If  Ellis 
Whitford  should,  unhappily,  be  overcome  by  this 
accursed  appetite  for  drink  which  is  destroying  so 
many  of  our  most  promising  young  men,  there  is 
trouble  ahead  for  her  and  for  us." 

"  Something  must  be  done  about  it.  We  cannot 
let  this  thing  go  on,"  said  Mr.  Birtwell,  in  a  kind  of 
helpless  passion.  "  A  drunkard  is  a  beast.  Our 
Blanche  tied  to  a  beast !  Ugh  !  Ellis  must  be  talked 
to.  I  shall  see  him  myself.  If  he  gets  offended,  I 
cannot  help  it.  There's  too  much  at  stake — too 
much,  too  much !" 

"Talking  never  does  much  in  these  cases,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Birtwell,  gloomily.  "  Ellis  would  be 
hurt  and  offended." 

"  So  far  so  good.  He'd  be  on  guard  at  the  next 
party." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  what  hope  is  there  for  a  young 
man  in  any  danger  of  acquiring  a  love  of  liquor  as 
things  now  are  in  our  best  society?  He  cannot 
always  be  on  guard.  Wine  is  poured  for  him  every 
where.  He  may  go  unharmed  in  his  daily  walks 
through  the  city  though  thousands  of  drinking- 
saloons  crowd  its  busy  streets.  They  may  hold  out 
their  enticements  for  him  in  vain.  But  he  is  too 
weak  to  refuse  the  tempting  glass  when  a  fair  hostess 
offers  it,  or  when,  in  the  midst  of  a  gay  company, 


24  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

wine  is  in  every  hand  and  at  every  lip.  One  glass 
taken,  and  caution  and  restraint  are  too  often  for 
gotten.  He  drinks  with  this  one  and  that  one,  until 
his  clear  head  is  gone  and  appetite,  like  a  watchful 
spider,  throws  another  cord  of  its  fatal  web  around 
him." 

"  I  don't  see  what  we  are  to  do  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Birtwell.  "  If  men  can't  control  themselves —  "  He 
did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  We  can  at  least  refrain  from  putting  temptation 
in  their  way,"  answered  his  wife. 

"How?" 

"  We  can  refuse  to  turn  our  houses  into  drinking- 
saloons,"  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  voice  and  manner 
becoming  excited  and  intense. 

"  Margaret,  Margaret,  you  are  losing  yourself," 
said  the  astonished  husband. 

"  No ;  I  speak  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness," 
she  answered,  her  face  rising  in  color  and  her  eyes 
brightening.  ''What  great  difference  is  there  be 
tween  a  drinking-saloon,  where  liquor  is  sold,  and  a 
gentleman's  dining-room,  where  it  is  given  away? 
The  harm  is  great  in  both — greatest,  I  fear,  in  the 
latter,  where  the  weak  and  unguarded  are  allured 
and  their  tastes  corrupted.  There  is  a  ban  on  the 
drinking-saloon.  Society  warns  young  men  not  to 
enter  its  tempting  doors.  It  is  called  the  way  of 
death  and  hell.  What  makes  it  accursed  and  our 
home  saloon  harmless?  It  is  all  wrong,  Mr.  Birt 
well — all  wrong,  wrong,  wrong !  and  to-day  we  are 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          25 

tasting  some  of  the  fruit,  the  bitterness  of  which,  1 
fear,  will  be  in  our  mouths  so  long  as  we  both  shall 
live." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  broke  down,  and  sinking  back  in  her 
chair,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  I4  must  go  to  Frances,"  she  said,  rising  after  a 
few  moments. 

"  Not  now,  Margaret,"  interposed  her  husband. 
"  Wait  for  a  while.  Archie  is  neither  murdered  nor 
frozen  to  death  ;  you  may  take  my  word  for  that. 
Wait  until  the  morning  advances,  and  he  has  time  to 
put  in  an  appearance,  as  they  say.  Henry  can  go 
round  after  breakfast  and  make  inquiry  about  him. 
If  he  is  still  absent,  then  you  might  call  and  see  Mrs. 
Voss.  At  present  the  snow  lies  inches  deep  and 
unbroken  on  the  street,  and  you  cannot  possibly  go 
out." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  sat  down  again,  her  countenance 
more  distressed. 

"  Oh,  if  it  hadn't  happened  in  our  house !"  she 
said.  "  If  this  awful  thing  didn't  lie  at  our  door!" 

"  Good  Heavens,  Margaret !  why  will  you  take  on 
so?  Any  one  hearing  you  talk  might  think  us 
guilty  of  murder,  or  some  other  dreadful  crime. 
Even  if  the  worst  fears  are  realized,  no  blame  can  lie 
with  us.  Parties  are  given  every  night,  and  young 
men,  and  old  men  too,  go  home  from  them  with 
lighter  heads  than  when  they  came.  No  one  is  com 
pelled  to  drink  more  than  is  good  for  him.  If  he 
takes  too  much,  the  sin  lies  at  his  own  door." 

3 


26  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

''  If  you  talked  for  ever,  Mr.  Birtwell,"  was  an 
swered,  "nothing  you  might  say  could  possibly 
change  my  feelings  or  sentiments.  I  know  we  are 
responsible  both  to  God  and  to  society  for  the 
stumbling-blocks  we  set  in  the  way  of  others.  For 
a  long  time,  as  you  know,  I  have  felt  this  in  regard 
to  our  social  wine-drinking  customs ;  and  if  I  could 
have  had  my  way,  there  would  have  been  one  large 
party  of  the  season  at  which  neither  man  nor  woman 
could  taste  wine." 

"  I  know,"  replied  Mr.  Birtwell.  "  But  I  didn't 
choose  to  make  myself  a  laughing-stock.  If  we  are 
in  socety,  we  must  do  as  society  does.  Individuals 
are  net  responsible  for  social  usages.  They  take 
things  as  they  find  them,  going  with  the  current,  and 
leaving  society  to  settle  for  itself  its  code  of  laws 
and  customs.  If  we  don't  like  these  laws  and  cus 
toms,  we  are  free  to  drift  out  of  the  current.  But 
to  set  ourselves  against  them  is  a  weakness  and  a 
folly." 

Mr.  Birtwell's  voice  and  manner  grew  more  confi 
dent  as  he  spoke.  He  felt  that  he  had  closed  the 
argument. 

"  If  society,"  answered  his  wife,  "  gets  wrong,  how 
is  it  to  get  right  ?" 

Mr.  Birtwell  was  silent. 

"  Is  it  not  made  up  of  individuals  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"And  is  not  each  of  the  individuals  responsible, 
»n  his  degree,  for  the  conduct  of  society?" 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          27 

"  In  a  certain  sense,  yes." 

"  Society,  as  a  whole,  cannot  determine  a  question 
of  right  and  wrong.  Only  individuals  can  do  this. 
Certain  of  these,  more  independent  than  the  rest, 
pass  now  and  then  from  the  beaten  track  of  cus 
tom,  and  the  great  mass  follow  them.  Because  they 
do  this  or  that,  it  is  right  or  in  good  taste  and  be 
comes  fashionable.  The  many  are  always  led  by 
the  few.  It  is  through  the  personal  influence  of 
the  leaders  in  social  life  that  society  is  now  cursed 
by  its  drinking  customs.  Personal  influence  alone 
can  change  these  customs,  and  therefore  every  indi 
vidual  becomes  responsible,  because  he  might  if  he 
would  set  his  face  against  them,  and  any  one  brave 
enough  to  do  this  would  find  many  weaker  ones 
quick  to  come  to  his  side  and  help  him  to  form  a 
better  social  sentiment  and  a  better  custom." 

"All  very  nicely  said,"  replied  Mr.  Birtwell,  "but 
I'd  like  to  see  the  man  brave  enough  to  give  a  large 
fashionable  party  and  exclude  wine." 

"  So  would  I.  Though  every  lip  but  mine  kept 
silence,  there  would  be  one  to  do  him  honor." 

"  You  would  be  alone,  I  fear,"  said  the  husband. 

"  When  a  man  does  a  right  and  brave  thing,  all 
true  men  honor  him  in  their  hearts.  All  may  not  be 
brave  enough  to  stand  by  his  side,  but  a  noble  few 
will  imitate  the  good  example.  Give  the  leader  in 
any  cause,  right  Dr  wrong,  and  you  will  always  find 
adherents  of  the  cause.  No,  my  husband,  I  would 
not  be  alone  in  doing  that  man  honor.  His  praise 


28  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

would  be  on  many  lips  and  many  hearts  would  bless 
him.  I  only  wish  you  were  that  man !  Spencer,  if 
you  will  consent  to  take  this  lead,  I  will  walk  among 
our  guests  the  queenliest  woman,  in  heart  at  least,  to 
be  found  in  any  drawing-room  this  season.  I  shall 
not  be  without  my  maids-of-honor,  you  may  be  sure, 
and  they  will  come  from  the  best  families  known  in 
our  city.  Come !  say  yes,  and  I  will  be  prouder  of 
my  husband  than  if  he  were  the  victorious  general 
of  a  great  army." 

41  No,  thank  you,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Birtwell, 
not  in  the  least  moved  by  his  wife's  enthusiasm.  "  I 
am  not  a  social  reformer,  nor  in  the  least  inclined 
that  way.  As  I  find  things  I  take  them.  It  is  no 
fault  of  mine  that  some  people  have  no  control  of 
their  appetites  and  passions.  Men  will  abuse  almost 
anything  to  their  own  hurt.  I  saw  as  many  of  our 
guests  over-eat  last  night  as  over-drink,  and  there 
will  be  quite  as  many  headaches  to-day  from  excess 
of  terrapin  and  oysters  as  from  excess  of  wine.  It's 
no  use,  Margaret.  Intemperance  is  not  to  be  cured 
in  this  way.  Men  who  ha**e  a  taste  for  wine  will  get 
it,  if  not  in  one  place  then  in  another;  if  not  in  a 
gentleman's  dining-room,  then  in  a  drinking-saloon, 
or  somewhere  else." 

The  glow  faded  from  Mrs.  Birtwell's  face  and  the 
light  went  out  of  her  eyes.  Her  voice  was  husky 
and  choking  as  she  replied  : 

"  One  fact  does  not  invalidate  another.  Because 
men  who  have  acquired  a  taste  for  wine  will  have  it 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          29 

whether  we  provide  it  for  them  or  not,  it  is  no  rea 
son  why  we  should  set  it  before  the  young  whoso 
appetites  are  yet  unvitiated  and  lure  them  to  excesses. 
It  does  not  make  a  free  indulgence  in  wine  and 
brandy  any  the  more  excusable  because  men  over 
eat  themselves." 

"  But,"  broke  in  Mr.  Birtwell,  with  the  manner  of 
one  who  gave  an  unanswerable  reason,  "  if  we  ex 
clude  wine  that  men  may  not  hurt  themselves  by 
over-indulgence,  why  not  exclude  the  oysters  and 
terrapin  ?  If  we  set  up  for  reformers  and  philan 
thropists,  why  not  cover  the  whole  ground  ?" 

"Oysters  and  terrapin/'  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  in 
a  voice  out  of  which  she  could  hardly  keep  the  con 
tempt  she  felt  for  her  husband's  weak  rejoinder, 
"  don't  confuse  the  head,  dethrone  the  reason,  brut 
alize,  debase  and  ruin  men  in  soul  and  body  as  do 
wine  and  brandy.  The  difference  lies  there,  and  all 
men  see  and  feel  it,  make  what  excuses  they  will  for 
self-indulgence  and  deference  to  custom.  The  curse 
of  drink  is  too  widely  felt.  There  is  scarcely  a  fam 
ily  in  the  land  on  which  its  blight  does  not  lie.  The 
best,  the  noblest,  the  purest,  the  bravest,  have  fallen 
It  is  breaking  hopes  and  hearts  and  fortunes  every 
day.  The  warning  cross  that  marks  the  grave  of 
some  poor  victim  hurts  your  eyes  at  every  turn  of 
life.  We  are  left  without  excuse." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  rose  as  she  finished  speaking,  and 
returned  to  her  chamber. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  1\/T R>  VOSS'" said  the  waiter  as  he 

-*-VJL    door  of  the  breakfast-room. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  left  the  table  hurriedly  and 
went  to  the  parlor.  Their  visitor  was  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  as  they  entered. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Voss,  have  you  heard  anything  of  Ar 
chie  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Birtwell. 

"  Nothing  yet,"  he  replied. 

"  Dreadful,  dreadful !     What  can  it  mean  ?" 

'-  Don't  be  alarmed  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Birtwell, 
trying  to  speak  in  an  assuring  voice.  "  He  must 
have  gone  home  with  a  friend.  It  will  be  all  right, 
I  am  confident." 

"  I  trust  so,"  replied  Mr.  Voss.  "  But  I  cannot 
help  feeling  very  anxious.  He  has  never  been  away 
all  night  before.  Something  is  wrong.  Do  you 
know  precisely  at  what  time  he  left  here  ?" 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  Mr.  Birtwell.  "  We  had  a 
large  company,  and  I  did  not  note  particularly  the 
coming  or  going  of  any  one." 

"  Doctor  Angier  thinks  it  was  soon  after  twelve 
o'clock.  He  saw  him  come  out  of  the  dressing- 
room  and  go  down  stairs  about  that  time." 

"How  is  Frances?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell.  "If 
must  be  a  dreadful  shock  to  her  in  her  weak  state." 

30 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  3 1 

"  Yes,  it  is  dreadful,  and  I  feel  very  anxious  about 
her.  If  anything  has  happened  to  Archie,  it  will 
kill  her." 

Tears  fell  over  Mrs.  Birtwell's  face  and  she  wrung 
her  hands  in  distress. 

"  She  is  calmer  than  she  was,"  said  Mr.  Voss.  "  The 
first  alarm  and  suspense  broke  her  right  down,  and 
she  was  insensible  for  some  hours.  But  she  is  bear 
ing  it  better  now — much  better  than  I  had  hoped  for." 

"  I  will  go  to  see  her  at  once.  Oh,  if  I  knew  how 
to  comfort  her!" 

To  this  Mr.  Voss  made  no  response,  but  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  who  was  looking  into  his  face,  saw  an  ex 
pression  that  she  did  not  understand. 

"  She  will  see  me,  of  course  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  you'd  better  not  go 
round  yet.  It  might  disturb  her  too  much,  and  the 
doctor  says  she  must  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible." 

Something  in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Voss  sent  a  chill 
to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Birtwell.  She  felt  an  evasion 
in  his  reply.  Then  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  flashed 
upon  her  mind,  overwhelming  her  with  a  flood  of 
bitterness  in  which  shame,  self-reproach,  sorrow  and 
distress  were  mingled.  It  was  from  her  hand,  so  to 
speak,  that  the  son  of  her  friend  had  taken  the  wine 
which  had  bewildered  his  senses,  and  from  her  house 
that  he  had  gone  forth  with  unsteady  step  and  con 
fused  brain  to  face  a  storm  the  heaviest  and  wildest 
that  had  been  known  for  years.  If  he  were  dead, 
would  not  the  stain  of  his  blood  be  on  her  garments  ? 


32  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

No  marvel  that  Mr.  Voss  had  said,  "  Not  yet ;  it 
might  disturb  her  too  much."  Disturb  the  friend 
with  whose  heart  her  own  had  beaten  in  closest  sym 
pathy  and  tenderest  love  for  years — the  friend  who 
had  flown  to  her  in  the  deepest  sorrow  she  had  ever 
•known  and  held  her  to  her  heart  until  she  was  com 
forted  by  the  sweet  influences  of  love.  Oh,  this 
was  hard  to  bear !  She  bowed  her  head  and  stood 
silent. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Voss,  speaking  to  Mr.  Birt- 
well,  "  to  get  the  names  of  a  few  of  the  guests  who 
were  here  last  night.  Some  of  them  may  have  seen 
Archie  go  oat,  or  may  have  gone  away  at  the  time 
he  did.  I  must  find  some  clue  to  the  mystery  of 
his  absence." 

Mr.  Birtwell  named  over  many  of  his  guests,  and 
Mr.  Voss  made  a  note  of  their  addresses.  The  chill 
went  deeper  down  into  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Birtwell; 
and  when  Mr.  Voss,  who  seemed  to  grow  colder 
and  more  constrained  every  moment,  without  look 
ing  at  her,  turned  to  go  away,  the  pang  that  cut  her 
bosom  was  sharp  and  terrible. 

"If  I  can  do  anything,  Mr.  Voss,  command — " 
Mr.  Birtwell  had  gone  to  the  door  with  his  visitor, 
who  passed  out  hastily,  not  waiting  to  hear  the  con 
clusion  of  his  sentence. 

"A  little  strange  in  his  manner,  I  should  say," 
remarked  Mr.  Birtwell  as  he  came  back.  "One 
might  infer  that  he  thought  us  to  blame  for  his  son's 
absence." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  3^ 

"  I  can't  bear  this  suspense.  I  must  see  Frances." 
It  was  an  hour  after  Mr.  Voss  had  been  there.  Mrs. 
Birtwell  rang  a  bell,  and  ordering  the  carriage,  made 
herself  ready  to  go  out. 

"  Mrs.  Voss  says  you  must  excuse  her,"  said 
the  servant  who  had  taken  up  Mrs.  Birtwell's  card. 
"  She  is  not  seeing  any  but  the  family,"  added  the 
man,  who  saw  in  the  visitor's  face  the  pain  of  a  great 
disappointment. 

Slowly  retiring,  her  head  bent  forward  and  her 
body  stooping  a  little  like  one  pressed  down  by  a 
burden,  Mrs.  Birtwell  left  the  house  of  her  oldest 
and  dearest  friend  with  an  aching  sense  of  rejection 
at  her  heart.  In  the  darkest  and  saddest  hour  of 
her  life  that  friend  had  turned  from  the  friend  who 
had  been  to  her  more  than  a  sister,  refusing  the 
sympathy  and  tears  she  had  come  to  offer.  There 
was  a  bitter  cup  at  the  lips  of  both ;  which  was  the 
bitterest  it  would  be  hard  to  tell. 

"  Not  now,"  Mrs.  Voss  had  said,  speaking  to  her 
husband ;  "  I  cannot  meet  her  now." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  see  her,"  returned  the 
latter. 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  Mrs.  Voss  put  up  her  hands  and 
shivered  as  she  spoke.  "  I  cannot,  I  cannot !  Oh, 
my  boy !  my  son !  my  poor  Archie !  Where  are 
you  ?  Why  do  you  not  come  home  ?  Hark  !" 

The  bell  had  rung  loudly.  They  listened,  and 
heard  men's  voices  in  the  hall  below.  With  face 
flushing  and  paling  in  quick  alternations,  Mrs.  Voss 
c 


34  Wounded  in  tJie  House  of  a  Friend. 

started  up  in  bed  and  leaned  forward,  hearkening 
eagerly.  Mr.  Voss  opened  the  chamber  door  and 
went  out.  Two  policemen  had  come  to  report  that 
so  far  all  efforts  to  find  a  trace  of  the  young  man 
had  been  utterly  fruitless.  Mrs.  Voss  heard  in 
silence.  Slowly  the  dark  lashes  fell  upon  her  cheeks, 
that  were  white  as  marble.  Her  lips  were  rigid  and 
closely  shut,  her  hands  clenched  tightly.  So  she 
struggled  with  the  fear  and  agony  that  \vere  assault 
ing  her  life. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  HANDSOME  man  of  forty-five  stood  linger 
ing  by  the  bedside  of  his  wife,  whose  large 
tender  eyes  looked  up  at  him  almost  wistfully.  A 
baby's  head,  dark  with  beautiful  hair  that  curled  in 
scores  of  silken  ringlets,  lay  close  against  her  bosom. 
The  chamber  was  not  large  nor  richly  furnished, 
though  everything  was  in  good  taste  and  comfort 
able.  A  few  articles  were  out  of  harmony  with  the 
rest  and  hinted  at  better  days.  One  of  these  was  a 
large  secretary  of  curious  workmanship,  inlaid  with 
costly  woods  and  pearl  and  rich  with  carvings. 
Another  was  a  small  mantel  clock  of  exquisite 
beauty.  Two  or  three  small  but  rare  pictures  hung 
on  the  walls. 

Looking  closely  into  the  man's  strong  intellectual 
face,  you  would  have  seen  something  that  marred 
the  harmony  of  its  fine  features  and  dimmed  its 
clear  expression — something  to  stir  a  doubt  or 
awaken  a  feeling  of  concern.  The  eyes,  that  were 
deep  and  intense,  had  a  shadow  in  them,  and  the 
curves  of  the  mouth  had  suffering  and  passion  and 
evidences  of  stern  mental  conflict  in  every  line. 
This  was  no  common  man,  no  social  drone,  but  one 

85 


36  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

who  in  his  contact  with  men  was  used  to  making 
himself  felt. 

"  Come  home  early,  Ralph,  won't  you  ?"  said  his 
wife. 

The  man  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  and  then 
pressed  his  lips  to  the  baby's  head. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I  don't  mean  to  stay  late.  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  expectation  of  meeting  General  Logan  and 
one  or  two  others  that  I  particularly  wish  to  see,  I 
wouldn't  go  at  all.  I  have  to  make  good,  you  know, 
all  the  opportunities  that  come  in  my  way." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know.  You  must  go,  of  course."  She 
had  taken  her  husband's  hand,  and  was  holding  it 
with  a  close  pressure.  He  had  to  draw  it  away 
almost  by  force. 

"  Good-night,  dear,  and  God  bless  you."  His 
voice  trembled  a  little.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her 
again.  A  moment  after  and  she  was  alone.  Then 
all  the  light  went  out  of  her  face  and  a  deep  shadow 
fell  quickly  over  it.  She  shut  her  eyes,  but  not 
tightly  enough  to  hold  back  the  tears  that  soon 
came  creeping  slowly  out  from  beneath  the  closed 
lashes. 

Ralph  Ridley  was  a  lawyer  of  marked  ability.  A 
few  years  before,  he  had  given  up  a  good  practice  at 
the  bar  for  an  office  under  the  State  government. 
Afterward  he  was  sent  to  Congress  and  passed  four 
years  in  Washington.  Like  too  many  of  our  ablest 
public  men,  the  temptations  of  that  city  were  too 
much  for  him  It  was  the  old  sad  story  that  repeats 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          37 

itself  every  year.  He  fell  a  victim  to  the  drinking 
customs  of  our  national  capital.  Everywhere  and 
on  all  social  occasions  invitations  to  wine  met  him. 
He  drank  with  a  friend  on  his  way  to  the  House,  and 
with  another  in  the  Capitol  buildings  before  taking 
his  seat  for  business.  He  drank  at  lunch  and  at 
dinner,  and  he  drank  more  freely  at  party  or  levee 
in  the  evening.  Only  in  the  early  morning  was  he 
free  from  the  bewildering  effects  of  liquor. 

Four  years  of  such  a  life  broke  down  his  man 
hood.  Hard  as  he  sometimes  struggled  to  rise 
above  the  debasing  appetite  that  had  enslaved  him, 
resolution  snapped  like  thread  in  a  flame  with  every 
new  temptation.  He  stood  erect  and  hopeful  to-day, 
and  to-morrow  lay  prone  and  despairing  under  the 
heel  of  his  enemy. 

At  the  end  of  his  second  term  in  Congress  the  peo 
ple  of  his  district  rejected  him.  They  could  tolerate 
a  certain  degree  of  drunkenness  and  demoralization 
in  their  representative,  but  Ridley  had  fallen  too  low. 
They  would  have  him  no  longer,  and  so  he  was  left 
out  in  the  party  nomination  and  sent  back  into  private 
life  hurt,  humiliated  and  in  debt.  No  clients  awaited 
his  return.  His  law-office  had  been  closed  for  years, 
and  there  was  little  encouragement  to  open  it  again 
in  the  old  place.  For  some  weeks  after  his  failure 
to  get  the  nomination  Ridley  drank  more  desper 
ately  than  ever,  and  was  in  a  state  of  intoxication 
nearly  all  the  while.  His  poor  wife,  who  clung  to 
him  through  all  wi^h  an  unwavering  fidelity,  was 

4 


38  Wounded  in  tlu  House  of  a  Fncnd. 

nearly  broken-hearted.  In  vain  had  relatives  and 
friends  interposed.  No  argument  nor  persuasion 
could  induce  her  to  abandon  him.  "  He  is  my  hus 
band,"  was  her  only  reply,  "and  I  will  not  leave 
him." 

One  night  he  was  brought  home  insensible.  He 
had  fallen  in  the  street  where  some  repairs  were 
being  made,  and  had  received  serious  injuries  which 
confined  him  to  the  house  for  two  or  three  weeks. 
This  gave  time  for  reflection  and  repentance.  The 
shame  and  remorse  that  filled  his  soul  as  he  looked 
at  his  sad,  pale  wife  and  neglected  children,  and 
thought  of  his  tarnished  name  and  lost  opportunities, 
spurred  him  to  new  and  firmer  resolves  than  ever 
before  made.  He  could  go  forward  no  longer  with 
out  utter  ruin.  No  hope  was  left  but  in  turning 
back.  He  must  set  his  face  in  a  new  direction,  and 
he  vowed  to  do  so,  promising  God  on  his  knees  in 
tears  and  agony  to  hold  by  his  vow  sacredly. 

A  new  day  had  dawned.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Ridley 
was  well  enough  to  be  out  again  he  took  counsel  of 
friends,  and  after  careful  deliberation  resolved  to  leave 
his  native  town  and  remove  to  the  city.  A  lawyer 
of  fine  ability  and  known  to  the  public  as  a  clear 
thinker  and  an  able  debater,  he  had  made  quite  an 
impression  on  the  country  during  his  first  term  in 
Congress ;  neither  he  nor  his  friends  had  any  doubt 
as  to  his  early  success,  provided  he  was  able  to  keep 
himself  free  from  the  thraldom  of  old  habits. 

A  few  old  friends  and  political  associates  made  up 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  35 

a  purse  to  enable  him  to  remove  to  the  city  with  his 
family.  An  office  was  taken  and  three  rooms  rented 
in  a  small  house,  where,  with  his  wife  and  two  chil 
dren,  one  daughter  in  her  fourteenth  year,  life  was 
started  anew.  There  was  no  room  for  a  servant  in 
this  small  establishment  even  if  he  had  been  able 
to  pay  the  hire  of  one. 

So  the  new  beginning  was  made.  A  man  of  Mr. 
Ridley's  talents  and  reputation  could  not  long  re 
main  unemployed.  In  the  very  first  week  he  had 
a  client  and  a  retaining  fee  of  twenty-five  dollars. 
The  case  was  an  important  one,  involving  some  nice 
questions  of  mercantile  law.  It  came  up  for  argu 
ment  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  and  gave  the 
opportunity  he  wanted.  His  management  of  the 
case  was  so  superior  to  that  of  the  opposing  counsel, 
and  his  citations  of  law  and  precedent  so  cumula 
tive  and  explicit,  that  he  gained  not  only  an  easy 
victory,  but  made  for  himself  a  very  favorable  im 
pression. 

After  that  business  began  gradually  to  flow  in 
upon  him,  and  he  was  able  to  gather  in  sufficient  to 
keep  his  family,  though  for  some  time  only  in  a  very 
humble  way.  Having  no  old  acquaintances  in  the 
city,  Mr.  Ridley  was  comparatively  free  from  temp 
tation.  He  was  promptly  at  his  office  in  the  morn 
ing,  never  leaving  it,  except  to  go  into  court  or  some 
of  the  public  offices  on  business,  until  the  hour 
arrived  for  returning  home. 

A  new  life  had  become  dominant,  a  new  ambition 


4O  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

• 

was  ruling  him.  Hope  revived  in  the  heart  of  his 
almost  despairing  wife,  and  the  future  looked  bright 
again.  His  eyes  had  grown  clear  and  confident  once 
more  and  his  stooping  shoulders  square  and  erect. 
In  his  bearing  you  saw  the  old  stateliness  and  con 
scious  sense  of  power.  Men  treated  him  with  defer 
ence  and  respect. 

In  less  than  a  year  Mr.  Ridley  was  able  to  remove 
his  family  into  a  better  house  and  to  afford  the  ex 
pense  of  a  servant.  So  far  they  had  kept  out  of  the 
city's  social  life.  Among  strangers  and  living  hum 
bly,  almost  meanly,  they  neither  made  nor  received 
calls  nor  had  invitations  to  evening  entertainments ; 
and  herein  lay  Mr.  Ridley's  safety.  It  was  on  his 
social  side  that  he  was  weakest.  He  could  hold 
himself  above  appetite  and  deny  its  cravings  if  left 
to  the  contest  alone.  The  drinking-saloons  whose 
hundred  doors  he  had  to  pass  daily  did  not  tempt 
him,  did  not  cause  his  firm  steps  to  pause  nor  linger. 
His  sorrow  and  shame  for  the  past  and  his  solemn 
promises  and  hopes  for  the  future  were  potent  enough 
to  save  him  from  all  such  allurements.  For  him 
their  doors  stood  open  in  vain.  The  path  of  danger 
lay  in  another  direction.  He  would  have  to  be 
taken  unawares.  If  betrayed  at  all,  it  must  be,  so 
to  speak,  in  the  house  of  a  friend.  The  Delilah  of 
"  good  society"  must  put  caution  and  conscience  to 
sleep  and  then  rob  him  of  his  strength. 

The  rising  man  at  the  bar  of  a  great  city  who  had 
tlready  served  two  terms  in  Congress  could  not  long 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          41 

remain  in  social  obscurity;  and  as  it  gradually  be 
came  known  in  the  "best  society"  that  Mrs.  Ridley 
stood  connected  with  some  of  the  "best  families" 
in  the  State,  one  and  another  began  to  call  upon 
her  and  to  court  her  acquaintance,  even  though  she 
was  living  in  comparative  obscurity  and  in  a  hum 
ble  way. 

At  first  regrets  were  returned  to  all  invitations  to 
evening  entertainments,  large  or  small.  Mr.  Ridley 
very  well  understood  why  his  wife,  who  was  social 
and  naturally  fond  of  company,  was  so  prompt  to 
decline.  He  knew  that  the  excuse,  "  We  are  not 
able  to  give  parties  in  return,"  was  not  really  the  true 
one.  He  knew  that  she  feared  the  temptation  that 
would  come  to  him,  and  he  was  by  no  means  insen 
sible  to  the  perils  that  would  beset  him  whenever  he 
found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  convivial  company, 
with  the  odor  of  wine  heavy  on  the  air  and  invita 
tions  to  drink  meeting  him  at  every  turn. 

But  this  could  not  always  be.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rid 
ley  could  not  for  ever  hold  themselves  away  from 
the  social  life  of  a  large  city  among  the  people  of 
which  their  acquaintance  was  gradually  extending. 
Mrs.  Ridley  would  have  continued  to  stand  aloof 
because  of  the  danger  she  had  too  good  reason  to 
fear,  but  her  husband  was  growing,  she  could  see, 
both  sensitive  and  restless.  He  wanted  the  profes 
sional  advantages  society  would  give  him,  and  he 
wanted,  moreover,  to  prove  his  manhood  and  take 
iway  the  reproach  under  which  he  felt  himself  lying. 


42  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Sooner  or  later  he  must  walk  this  way  of  peril,  and 
he  felt  that  he  was  becoming  strong  enough  and 
brave  enough  to  meet  the  old  enemy  that  had  van 
quished  him  so  many  times. 

"  We  will  go,"  he  said,  on  receiving  cards  of  invi 
tation  to  a  party  given  by  a  prominent  and  influen 
tial  citizen.  "  People  will  be  there  whom  I  should 
meet,  and  people  whom  I  want  you  to  meet." 

He  saw  a  shadow  creep  into  his  wife's  face  ;  Mrs. 
Ridley  saw  the  shadow  reflected  almost  as  a  frown 
from  his.  She  knew  what  was  in  her  husband's 
thoughts,  knew  that  he  felt  hurt  and  restless  under 
her  continued  reluctance  to  have  him  go  into  any 
company  where  wine  and  spirits  were  served  to  the 
guests,  and  feeling  that  a  longer  opposition  might 
do  more  harm  than  good,  answered,  with  as  much 
heartiness  and  assent  as  she  could  get  into  hei 
voice : 

"  Very  well,  but  it  will  cost  you  the  price  of  a 
new  dress,  for  I  have  nothing  fit  to  appear  in." 

The  shadow  swept  off  Mr.  Ridley's  face. 

"  All  right,"  he  returned.  "  I  received  a  fee  of 
fifty  dollars  to-day,  and  you  shall  have  every  cent 
of  it." 

In  the  week  that  intervened  Mrs.  Ridley  made 
herself  ready  for  the  party ;  but  had  she  been  pre 
paring  for  a  funeral,  her  heart  could  scarcely  have 
been  heavier.  Fearful  dreams  haunted  her  sleep, 
and  through  the  day  imagination  would  often  draw 
pictures  the  sight  of  which  made  her  cry  out  in  sud 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          43 

den  pain  and  fear.  All  this  she  concealed  from  her 
husband,  and  affected  to  take  a  pleased  interest  in 
the  coming  entertainment. 

Mrs.  Ridley  was  still  a  handsome  woman,  and  het 
husband  felt  the  old  pride  warming  his  bosom  when 
he  saw  her  again  among  brilliant  and  attractive 
women  and  noted  the  impression  she  made.  He 
watched  her  with  something  of  the  proud  interest  a 
mother  feels  for  a  beautiful  daughter  who  makes  her 
appearance  in  society  for  the  first  time,  and  his  heart 
beat  with  liveliest  pleasure  as  he  noticed  the  many 
instances  in  which  she  attracted  and  held  people  by 
the  grace  of  her  manner  and  the  charm  of  her  con 
versation. 

"  God  bless  her !"  he  said  in  his  heart  fervently 
as  the  love  he  bore  her  warmed  into  fresher  life  and 
moved  him  with  a  deeper  tenderness,  and  then  he 
made  for  her  sake  a  new  vow  of  abstinence  and  set 
anew  the  watch  and  ward  upon  his  appetite.  And  he 
had  need  of  watch  and  ward.  The  wine-merchant's 
bill  for  that  evening's  entertainment  was  over  eight 
hundred  dollars,  and  men  and  women,  girls  and 
boys,  all  drank  in  unrestrained  freedom. 

Mrs.  Ridley,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  kept  close 
to  her  husband  while  he  was  in  the  supper-room, 
and  he,  as  if  feeling  the  power  of  her  protecting 
influence,  was  pleased  to  hav  her  near.  The  smell 
of  wine,  its  sparkle  in  the  glasses,  the  freedom  and 
apparent  safety  with  which  every  one  drank,  the  fre 
quent  invitations  received,  and  the  little  banter  and 


44  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

half-surprised  lifting  of  the  eyebrows  that  came  no  if 
and  then  upon  refusal  were  no  light  draught  on  Mr 
Ridley's  strength. 

"  Have  you  tried  this  sherry,  Mr.  Ridley  ?"  saiu 
the  gentlemanly  host,  taking  a  bottle  from  the  sup 
per-table  and  filling  two  glasses.  "  It  is  very  choice  " 
He  lifted  one  of  the  glasses  as  he  spoke  and  handed 
it  to  his  guest.  There  was  a  flattering  cordiality  in 
his  manner  that  made  the  invitation  almost  irresist 
ible,  and  moreover  he  was  a  prominent  and  influen 
tial  citizen  whose  favorable  consideration  Mr.  Ridley 
wished  to  gain.  If  his  wife  had  not  been  standing 
by  his  side,  he  would  have  accepted  the  glass,  and  foi 
what  seemed  good  breeding's  sake  have  sipped  a  lit 
tie,  just  tasting  its  flavor,  so  that  he  could  compli 
ment  his  host  upon  its  rare  quality. 

"  Thank  you,"  Mr.  Ridley  was  able  to  say,  "  but 
I  do  not  take  wine."  His  voice  was  not  clear  and 
manly,  but  unsteady  and  weak. 

"  Oh,  excuse  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  setting 
down  the  glass  quickly.  "  I  was  not  aware  of  that.' 
He  stood  as  if  slightly  embarrassed  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  turning  to  a  clergyman  who  stood  close 
by,  said : 

"  Will  you  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  me,  Mr. 
Elliott?" 

An  assenting  smile  broke  into  Mr.  Elliott's  face, 
and  he  reached  for  the  glass  which  Mr.  Ridley  had 
just  refused. 

"  Something  very  choice,"  said  the  host. 


"The  clergyman  tasted  and  sipped  with  the  air  of  a  eon« 
moisseur." 

PAGE  45. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  45 

The  clergyman  tasted  and  sipped  with  the  air  of 
a  connoisseur. 

"  Very  choice  indeed,  sir,"  he  replied.  "  But  you 
always  have  good  wine." 

Mrs.  Ridley  drew  her  hand  in  her  husband's  arm 
and  leaned  upon  it. 

"  If  it  is  to  be  had,"  returned  the  host,  a  little 
proudly ;  "  and  I  generally  know  where  to  get  it.  A 
good  glass  of  wine  I  count  among  the  blessings  for 
which  one  may  give  thanks — wine,  I  mean,  not 
drugs." 

"  Exactly  ;  wine  that  is  pure  hurts  no  one,  unless, 
indeed,  his  appetite  has  been  vitiated  through  alco 
holic  indulgence,  and  even  then  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  moderate  use  of  strictly  pure  wine 
would  restore  the  normal  taste  and  free  a  man  from 
the  tyranny  of  an  enslaving  vice." 

That  sentence  took  quick  hold  upon  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Ridley.  It  gave  him  a  new  idea,  and  he  lis 
tened  with  keen  interest  to  what  followed. 

"  You  strike  the  keynote  of  a  true  temperance 
reformation,  Mr.  Elliott,"  returned  the  host.  "  Give 
men  pure  wine  instead  of  the  vile  stuff  that  bears  its 
name,  and  you  will  soon  get  rid  of  drunkenness. 
I  have  always  preached  that  doctrine." 

"And  I  imagine  you  are  about  right,"  answered 
Mr.  Elliott.  "  Wine  is  one  of  God's  gifts,  and  must 
be  good.  If  men  abuse  it  sometimes,  it  is  nothing 
more  than  they  do  with  almost  every  blessing  the 
Father  of  all  mercies  bestows  upon  his  children. 


46  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

The  abuse  of  a  thing  is  no  argument  against  its 
use." 

Mrs.  Ridley  drew  upon  the  arm  of  her  husband. 
She  did  not  like  the  tenor  of  this  conversation,  and 
wanted  to  get  him  away.  But  he  was  interested  in 
what  the  clergyman  was  saying,  and  wished  to  hear 
what  further  he  might  adduce  in  favor  of  the  healthy 
influence  of  pure  wine. 

"  I  have  always  used  wine,  and  a  little  good  brandy 
too,  and  am  as  free  from  any  inordinate  appetite  as 
your  most  confirmed  abstainer ;  but  then  I  take  espe 
cial  care  to  have  my  liquor  pure." 

"A  thing  not  easily  done,"  said  the  clergyman, 
replying  to  their  host. 

"  Not  easy  for  every  one,  but  yet  possible.  I  have 
never  found  much  difficulty." 

44  There  will  be  less  difficulty,  I  presume,"  returned 
Mr.  Elliott,  "  when  this  country  becomes,  as  it  soon 
will,  a  large  wine-producing  region.  When  cheap 
wines  take  the  place  of  whisky,  we  will  have  a  re 
turn  to  temperate  habits  among  the  lower  classes. 
and  not,  I  am  satisfied,  before.  There  is,  and  always 
has  been,  a  craving  in  the  human  system  for  some 
kind  of  stimulus.  After  prolonged  effort  there  is 
exhaustion  and  nervous  languor  that  cannot  always 
wait  upon  the  restorative  work  of  nutrition  ;  indeed, 
the  nutritive  organs  themselves  often  need  stimula 
tion  before  they  can  act  with  due  vigor.  Isn't  that 
so,  Dr.  Hillhouse  ?" 

And  the  clergyman   addressed   a  handsome  old 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          47 

man  with  hair  almost  as  white  as  snow  who  stood 
listening  to  the  conversation.  He  held  a  glass  of 
wine  in  his  hand. 

"You  speak  with  the  precision  of  a  trained  path 
ologist,"  replied  the  person  addressed,  bowing  grace 
fully  and  with  considerable  manner  as  he  spoke.  "  I 
could  not  have  said  it  better,  Mr.  Elliott." 

The  clergyman  received  the  compliment  with  a 
pleased  smile  and  bowed  his  acknowledgments, 
then  remarked : 

44  You  think  as  I  do  about  the  good  effects  that 
must  follow  a  large  product  of  American  wines  ?" 

Dr.  Hillhouse  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"  Oh,  then  you  don't  agree  with  me  ?" 

"Pure  wine  is  one  thing  and  too  much  of  what 
is  called  American  wine  quite  another  thing,"  replied 
the  doctor.  "  Cheap  wine  for  the  people,  as  matters 
now  stand,  is  only  another  name  for  diluted  alcohol. 
It  is  better  than  pure  whisky,  maybe,  though  the 
larger  quantity  that  will  naturally  be  taken  must 
give  the  common  dose  of  that  article  and  work 
about  the  same  effect  in  the  end." 

"  Then  you  are  not  in  favor  of  giving  the  people 
cheap  wines  ?"  said  the  clergyman. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 

"  I  have  been  twice  to  Europe,"  he  replied,  "  and 
while  there  looked  a  little  into  the  condition  of  the 
poorer  classes  in  wine  countries.  I  had  been  told 
that  there  was  scarcely  any  intemperance  among 
them,  but  I  did  not  find  it  so.  There,  as  here,  the 


48  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

use  of  alcohol  in  any  form,  whether  as  beer,  wine 
or  whisky,  produces  the  same  result,  varied  in  its 
effect  upon  the  individual  only  by  the  peculiarity  of 
temperament  and  national  character  of  the  people. 
I'll  take  another  glass  of  that  sherry ;  it's  the  best 
I've  tasted  for  a  year." 

And  Dr.  Hillhouse  held  out  his  glass  to  be  filled 
by  the  flattered  host,  Mr.  Elliott  doing  the  same, 
and  physician  and  clergyman  touched  their  brim 
ming  glasses  and  smiled  and  bowed  "  a  good  health." 
Before  the  hour  for  going  home  arrived  both  were 
freer  of  tongue  and  a  little  wilder  in  manner  than 
when  they  came. 

"  The  doctor  is  unusually  brilliant  to-night,"  said 
one,  with  just  a  slight  lifting  of  the  eyebrow. 

"  And  so  is  Mr.  Elliott,"  returned  the  person  ad 
dressed,  glancing  at  the  clergyman,  who,  standing  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  of  young  men,  glass  in  hand, 
was  telling  a  story  and  laughing  at  his  own  witti 
cisms. 

"  Nothing  strait-laced  about  Mr.  Elliott,"  remarked 
the  other.  "  I  like  him  for  that.  He  doesn't  think 
because  he's  a  clergyman  that  he  must  always  wear 
a  solemn  face  and  act  as  if  he  were  conduct 
ing  a  funeral  service.  Just  hear  him  laugh!  It 
makes  you  feel  good.  You  can  get  near  to  such  a 
man.  All  the  young  people  in  his  congregation  like 
him  because  he  doesn't  expect  them  to  come  up  to 
liis  official  level,  but  is  ever  ready  to  come  down  to 
them  and  enter  into  their  feelings  and  tastes." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          49 

"  He  likes  a  good  glass  of  wine,"  said  the  first 
speaker. 

"  Of  course  he  does.     Have  you  any  objection?" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  came  into  my  thought  just 
now  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  St.  Paul  said  about  eating  meat." 

"  Oh !" 

"  '  If  meat  make  my  brother  to  offend,  I  will  eat 
no  flesh  while  the  world  standeth,  lest  I  make  my 
brother  to  offend.'  And  again  :  '  Take  heed  lest  by 
any  means  this  liberty  of  yours  become  a  stumbling- 
block  to  them  that  are  weak.'  " 

"  How  does  that  apply  to  Mr.  Elliott  ?" 

"  There  are  more  than  one  or  two  young  men  in 
the  group  that  surrounds  him  who  need  a  better 
example  than  he  is  now  setting.  They  need  repres 
sion  in  the  matter  of  wine-drinking,  not  encour 
agement — a  good  example  of  abstinence  in  their 
minister,  and  not  enticement  to  drink  through  his 
exhibition  of  liberty.  Do  you  think  that  I,  church 
member  though  I  am  not,  could  stand  as  Mr.  Elliott 
is  now  standing,  glass  in  hand,  gayly  talking  to 
young  Ellis  Whitford,  who  rarely  goes  to  a  party 
without — poor  weak  young  man  ! — drinking  too 
much,  and  so  leading  him  on  in  the  way  of  destruc 
tion  instead  of  seeking  in  eager  haste  to  draw  him 
back  ?  No,  sir !  It  is  no  light  thing,  as  I  regard  it, 
to  put  a  stumbling-block  in  another's  way  or  to  lead 
the  weak  or  unwary  into  temptation." 
6  l> 


5O  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  about  it,"  was  the  answer, 
"and  I  must  confess  that,  though  not  a  temperance 
man  myself,  I  never  feel  quite  comfortable  about  it 
when  I  see  clergymen  taking  wine  freely  at  public 
dinners  and  private  parties.  It  is  not  a  good  exam 
ple,  to  say  the  least  of  it ;  and  if  there  is  a  class  of 
men  in  the  community  to  whom  we  have  some  right 
to  look  for  a  good  example,  it  is  the  class  chosen  and 
set  apart  to  the  work  of  saving  human  souls." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  RIDLEY  went  home  from  that  first  party 
with  his  head  as  clear  and  his  pulse  as  cool 
as  when  he  came.  The  wine  had  not  tempted  him 
very  strongly,  though  its  odor  had  been  fragrant  to 
his  nostrils,  and  the  sparkle  in  the  glasses  pleasant 
to  his  sight.  Appetite  had  not  aroused  itself  nor 
put  on  its  strength,  but  lay  half  asleep,  waiting 
for  some  better  opportunity,  when  the  sentinels 
should  be  weaker  or  off  their  guard. 

It  had  been  much  harder  for  him  to  refuse  the 
invitation  of  his  host  than  to  deny  the  solicitations 
of  the  old  desire.  He  had  been  in  greater  danger 
from  pride  than  from  appetite ;  and  there  remained 
with  him  a  sense  of  being  looked  down  upon  and 
despised  by  the  wealthy  and  eminent  citizen  who 
had  honored  him  with  an  invitation,  and  who  doubt 
less  regarded  his  refusal  to  take  wine  with  him  as 
little  less  than  a  discourtesy.  There  were  moments 
when  he  almost  regretted  that  refusal.  The  wine 
which  had  been  offered  was  of  the  purest  quality, 
and  he  remembered  but  too  well  the  theory  ad 
vanced  by  Mr.  Elliott,  that  the  moderate  use  of 
pure  wine  would  restore  the  normal  taste  and  free  a 
man  whose  appetite  had  been  vitiated  from  its 

51 


52  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

enslaving  influence.  His  mind  recurred  to  that 
thought  very  often,  and  the  more  he  dwelt  upon  it, 
the  more  inclined  he  was  to  accept  it  as  true.  If  it 
were  indeed  so,  then  he  might  be  a  man  among 
men  again. 

Mr.  Ridley  did  not  feel  as  comfortable  in  his 
mind  after  as  before  this  party,  nor  was  he  as  strong 
as  before.  The  enemy  had  found  a  door  unguarded, 
had  come  in  stealthily,  and  was  lying  on  the  alert, 
waiting  for  an  opportunity. 

A  few  weeks  afterward  came  another  invitation. 
It  was  accepted.  Mrs.  Ridley  was  not  really  well 
enough  to  go  out,  but  for  her  husband's  sake  she 
went  with  him,  and  by  her  presence  and  the  quiet 
power  she  had  over  him  held  him  back  from  the 
peril  he  might,  standing  alone,  have  tempted. 

A  month  later,  and  cards  of  invitation  were  re 
ceived  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spencer  Birtwell.  This 
was  to  be  among  the  notable  entertainments  of  the 
season.  Mr.  Birtwell  was  a  wealthy  banker  who, 
like  other  men,  had  his  weaknesses,  one  of  which 
was  a  love  of  notoriety  and  display.  He  had  a 
showy  house  and  attractive  equipages,  and  managed 
to  get  his  name  frequently  chronicled  in  the  news 
papers,  now  as  the  leader  in  some  public  enter 
prise  or  charity,  now  as  the  possessor  of  some  rare 
work  of  art,  and  now  as  the  princely  capitalist 
whose  ability  and  sagacity  had  lifted  him  from 
obscurity  to  the  proud  position  he  occupied.  He 
built  himself  a  palace  for  a  residence,  and  when  it 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  5  3 

was  completed  and  furnished  issued  tickets  of  ad 
mission,  that  the  public  might  see  in  what  splendor 
he  was  going  to  live.  Of  course  the  newspapers 
described  everything  with  a  minuteness  of  detail 
and  a  freedom  of  remark  that  made  some  modest 
and  sensitive  people  fancy  that  Mr.  Birtwell  must  be 
exceedingly  annoyed.  But  he  experienced  no  such 
feeling.  Praise  of  any  kind  was  pleasant  to  his 
ears;  you  could  not  give  him  too  much,  nor  was 
he  over-nice  as  to  the  quality.  He  lived  in  the  eyes 
of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  in  all  his  walk  and  con 
versation  he  looked  to  their  good  opinion. 

Such  was  Mr.  Birtwell,  at  whose  house  a  grand 
entertainment  was  to  be  given.  Among  the  large 
number  of  invited  guests  were  included  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ridley.  But  it  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Ridley 
could  not  go.  A  few  days  before  the  evening  on 
which  this  party  was  to  be  given  a  new-born  babe 
had  been  laid  on  her  bosom. 

"  Good-night,  dear,  and  God  bless  you !"  Mr. 
Ridley  had  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  very  tender,  as 
he  stooped  over  and  kissed  his  wife.  No  wonder 
that  all  the  light  went  out  of  her  face  the  moment 
she  was  alone,  nor  that  a  shadow  fell  quickly  over 
it,  nor  that  from  beneath  the  fringes  of  her  shut  eye 
lids  tears  crept  slowly  and  rested  upon  her  cheeks. 
If  her  husband  had  left  her  for  the  battlefield,  she 
could  not  have  felt  a  more  dreadful  impression  of 
danger,  nor  have  been  oppressed  by  a  more  terrible 
fersr  for  his  safety.  No  wonder  that  her  nurse,  com- 

5» 


54  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

ing  into  the  chamber  a  few  minutes  after  Mr.  Ridley 
*vent  out,  found  her  in  a  nervous  chill. 

The  spacious  and  elegant  drawing-rooms  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Birtwell  were  crowded  with  the  elite  of  the 
city,  and  the  heart  of  the  former  swelled  with  pride; 
as  he  received  his  guests  and  thought  of  their  social, 
professional  or  political  distinction,  the  lustre  of 
which  he  felt  to  be,  for  the  time,  reflected  upon  him 
self.  It  was  good  to  be  in  such  company,  and  to 
feel  that  he  was  equal  with  the  best.  He  had  not 
always  been  the  peer  of  such  men.  There  had  been 
an  era  of  obscurity  out  of  which  he  had  slowly 
emerged,  and  therefore  he  had  the  larger  pride  and 
self-satisfaction  in  the  position  he  now  held. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  was  a  woman  of  another  order. 
All  her  life  she  had  been  used  to  the  elegancy  that 
a  wealthy  parentage  gave,  and  to  which  her  husband 
had  been,  until  within  a  few  years,  an  entire  stranger. 
She  was  "  to  the  manner  born,"  he  a  parvenu  with 
a  restless  ambition  to  outshine.  Familiarity  with 
things  luxurious  and  costly  had  lessened  their  value 
in  her  eyes,  and  true  culture  had  lifted  her  above  the 
weakness  of  resting  in  or  caring  much  about  them, 
while  their  newness  and  novelty  to  Mr.  Birtwell 
made  enjoyment  keen,  and  led  him  on  to  extrava 
gant  and  showy  exhibitions  of  wealth  that  caused 
most  people  to  smile  at  his  weakness,  and  a*  good 
many  to  ask  who  he  was  and  from  whence  he  came 
that  he  carried  himself  so  loftily.  Mrs.  Birtwell  die4 
not  like  the  advanced  position  to  which  her  husband 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          5  5 

carried  her,  but  she  yielded  to  his  weak  love  of 
notoriety  and  social  eclat  as  gracefully  as  possible, 
and  did  her  best  to  cover  his  too  glaring  violations 
of  good  taste  and  conventional  refinement.  In  this 
she  was  not  always  successful. 

Of  course  the  best  of  liquors  in  lavish  abundance 
were  provided  by  Mr.  Birtwell  for  his  guests.  Be 
sides  the  dozen  different  kinds  of  wine  that  were  on 
the  supper-table,  there  was  a  sideboard  for  gentle 
men,  in  a  room  out  of  common  observation,  well 
stocked  with  brandy,  gin  and  whisky,  and  it  was  a 
little  curious  to  see  how  quickly  this  was  discovered 
by  certain  of  the  guests,  who  scented  it  as  truly  as 
a  bee  scents  honey  in  a  clover-field,  and  extracted 
its  sweets  as  eagerly. 

Of  the  guests  who  were  present  we  have  now  to 
deal  chiefly  with  Mr.  Ridley,  and  only  incidentally 
with  the  rest.  Dr.  Hillhouse  was  there  during  the 
first  part  of  the  evening,  but  went  away  early — that 
is,  before  twelve  o'clock.  He  remained  long  enough, 
however,  to  do  full  justice  to  the  supper  and  wines. 
His  handsome  and  agreeable  young  associate,  Dr. 
Angier,  a  slight  acquaintance  with  whom  the  reader 
has  already,  prolonged  his  stay  to  a  later  hour. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Elliott  was  also  among  the  guests, 
displaying  his  fine  social  qualities  and  .attracting  about 
him  the  young  and  the  old.  Everybody  liked  Dr. 
Elliott,  he  was  so  frank,  so  cordial,  free  and  sympa 
thetic,  and,  withal,  so  intelligent.  He  did  not  bring 
the  clergyman  with  him  into  a  gay  drawing-room, 


56  Wounded  in  the  hoitst  of  a  Friend. 

nor  the  ascetic  to  a  feast.  He  could  talk  with  the 
banker  about  finance,  with  the  merchant  about  trade, 
with  the  student  or  editor  about  science,  literature 
and  the  current  events  of  the  day,  and  with  young 
men  and  maidens  about  music  and  the  lighter  mat 
ters  in  which  they  happened  to  be  interested.  And. 
moreover,  he  could  enjoy  a  good  supper  and  knew 
the  flavor  of  good  wine.  A  man  of  such  rare  ac 
complishments  came  to  be  a  general  favorite,  and 
so  you  encountered  Mr.  Elliott  at  nearly  all  the  fash 
ionable  parties. 

Mr.  Ridley  had  met  the  reverend  doctor  twice, 
and  had  been  much  pleased  with  him.  What  he 
had  heard  him  say  about  the  healthy  or  rather  saving 
influences  of  pure  wine  had  taken  a  strong  hold  of 
his  thoughts,  and  he  had  often  wished  for  an  oppor 
tunity  to  talk  with  him  about  it.  On  this  evening 
he  found  that  opportunity.  Soon  after  his  arrival 
at  the  house  of  Mr.  Birtwell  he  saw  Mr.  Elliott  in 
one  of  the  parlors,  and  made  his  way  into  the  little 
group  which  had  already  gathered  around  the  affable 
clergyman.  Joining  in  the  conversation,  which  was 
upon  some  topic  of  the  day,  Mr.  Ridley,  who  talked 
well,  was  not  long  in  awakening  that  interest  in  the 
mind  of  Mr.  Elliott  which  one  cultivated  and  intel 
ligent  person  naturally  feels  for  another;  and  in  a 
little  while  they  had  the  conversation  pretty  much 
to  themselves.  It  touched  this  theme  and  that, 
and  finally  drifted  in  a  direction  which  enabled  Mr. 
Ridley  to  refer  to  what  he  had  heard  Mr.  Elliott  say 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  57 

about  the  healthy  effect  of  pure  wine  on  the  taste 
of  men  whose  appetites  had  become  morbid,  and 
to  ask  him  if  he  had  any  good  ground  for  his  be 
lief. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  bring  any  proof  of  my 
theory,"  returned  Mr.  Elliott,  "  but  I  hold  to  it  on 
the  ground  of  an  eternal  fitness  of  things.  Wine 
is  good,  and  was  given  by  God  to  make  glad  the 
hearts  of  men.  and  is  to  be  used  temperately,  as  are 
all  other  gifts  It  may  be  abused,  and  is  abused 
daily.  Men  hurt  themselves  by  excess  of  wine  as 
by  excess  of  food.  But  the  abuse  of  a  thing  is  no 
argument  against  its  use.  If  a  man  through  epicur 
ism  or  gormandizing  has  brought  on  disease,  what 
do  you  do  with  him  ?  Deny  him  all  food,  or  give 
him  of  the  best  in  such  quantities  as  his  nutritive 
system  can  appropriate  and  change  into  healthy 
muscle,  nerve  and  bone?  You  do  the  latter,  of 
course,  and  so  would  I  treat  the  case  of  a  man  who 
had  hurt  himself  by  excess  of  wine.  I  would  see 
that  he  had  only  the  purest  and  in  diminished  quan 
tity,  so  that  his  deranged  system  might  not  only 
have  time  but  help  in  regaining  its  normal  condi 
tion." 

"  And  you  think  this  could  be  safely  done  ?"  said 
Mr.  Ridley. 

"  That  is  my  view  of  the  case." 

"  Then  you  do  not  hold  to  the  entire  abstinence 
theory  ?" 

"  No  sir ;  on  that  subject  our  temperance  people 


58  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

have  run  into  what  we  might  call  fanaticism,  and 
greatly  weakened  their  influence.  Men  should  be 
taught  self-control  and  moderation  in  the  use  of 
things.  If  the  appetite  becomes  vitiated  through 
over-indulgence,  you  do  not  change  its  condition  by 
complete  denial.  What  you  want  for  radical  cure  is 
the  restoration  of  the  old  ability  to  use  without  abus 
ing.  In  other  words,  you  want  a  man  made  right 
again  as  to  his  rational  power  of  self-control,  by 
which  he  becomes  master  of  himself  in  all  the  de 
grees  of  his  life,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest." 

"All  very  well,"  remarked  Dr.  Hillhouse,  who 
had  joined  them  while  Mr.  Elliott  was  speaking. 
"  But,  in  my  experience,  the  rational  self-control  of 
which  you  speak  is  one  of  the  rarest  things  to  be 
met  with  in  common  life,  and  it  may  be  fair  to  con 
clude  that  the  man  who  cannot  exercise  it  before  a 
dangerous  habit  has  been  formed  will  not  be  very 
likely  to  exercise  it  afterward  when  anything  is 
done  to  favor  that  habit.  Habits,  Mr.  Elliott,  are 
dreadful  hard  things  to  manage,  and  I  do  not  know 
a  harder  one  to  deal  with  than  the  habit  of  over 
indulgence  in  wine  or  spirits.  I  should  be  seriously 
afraid  of  your  prescription.  The  temperate  use  of 
wine  I  hold  to  be  good ;  but  for  those  who  have 
once  lost  the  power  of  controlling  their  appetites  I 
am  clear  in  my  opinion  there  is  only  one  way  of 
safety,  and  that  is  the  way  of  entire  abstinence  from 
any  drink  in  which  there  is  alcohol,  call  it  by  what 
name  you  will;  and  this  is  the  view  now  held  by 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  59 

the  most  experienced  and  intelligent  men  in  GUI 
profession." 

A  movement  in  the  company  being  observed,  Mr. 
Elliott,  instead  of  replying,  stepped  toward  a  lady, 
and  asked  the  pleasure  of  escorting  her  to  the  sup 
per-room.  Dr.  Hillhouse  was  equally  courteous, 
and  Mr.  Ridley,  seeing  the  wife  of  General  Regan, 
whom  he  had  often  met  in  Washington,  standing  a 
little  way  off,  passed  to  her  side  and  offered  his  arm, 
which  was  accepted. 

There  was  a  crowd  and  crush  upon  the  stairs, 
fine  gentlemen  and  ladies  seeming  to  forget  their 
courtesy  and  good  breeding  in  their  haste  to  be 
among  the  earliest  who  should  reach  the  banquet- 
ing-hall.  This  was  long  and  spacious,  having  been 
planned  by  Mr.  Birtwell  with  a  view  to  grand  enter 
tainments  like  the  one  he  was  now  giving.  In  an 
almost  incredibly  short  space  of  time  it  was  filled  to 
suffocation.  Those  who  thought  themselves  among 
the  first  to  move  were  surprised  to  rind  the  tables 
already  surrounded  by  young  men  and  women,  who 
had  been  more  interested  in  the  status  of  the  supper- 
room  than  in  the  social  enjoyments  of  the  parlors, 
and  who  had  improved  their  advanced  state  of  ob 
servation  by  securing  precedence  of  the  rest,  and 
stood  waiting  for  the  signal  to  begin. 

Mr.  Birtwell  had  a  high  respect  for  the  Church, 
and  on  an  occasion  like  this  could  do  no  less  than 
honor  one  of  its  dignitaries  by  requesting  him  to 
ask  a  blessing  on  the  sumptuous  repast  he  had  pro- 


bo  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

vided — on  the  rich  food  and  the  good  wine  and 
brandy  he  was  about  dispensing  with  such  a  liberal 
hand.  So,  in  the  waiting  pause  that  ensued  after 
the  room  was  well  filled,  Mr.  Elliott  was  called  upon 
to  bless  the  feast,  which  he  did  in  a  raised,  im 
pressive  and  finely  modulated  voice.  Then  came 
the  rattle  of  plates  and  the  clink  of  glasses,  fol 
lowed  by  the  popping  of  champagne  and  the  multi 
tudinous  and  distracting  Babel  of  tongues. 

Mr.  Ridley,  who  felt  much  inclined  to  favor  the 
superficial  and  ill-advised  utterances  of  Mr.  Elliott, 
took  scarcely  any  heed  of  what  Dr.  Hillhouse  had 
replied.  In  fact,  knowing  that  the  doctor  was  free 
with  wine  himself,  he  did  not  give  much  weight  to 
what  he  said,  feeling  that  he  was  talking  more  for 
argument's  sake  than  to  express  his  real  senti 
ments. 

A  feeling  of  repression  came  over  Mr.  Ridley  as 
he  entered  the  supper-room  and  his  eyes  ran  down 
the  table.  Half  of  this  sumptuous  feast  was  for 
bidden  enjoyment.  He  must  not  taste  the  wine. 
All  were  free  but  him.  He  could  fill  a  glass  for  the 
elegant  lady  whose  hand  was  still  upon  his  arm, 
but  must  not  pledge  her  back  except  in  water.  A 
sense  of  shame  and  humiliation  crept  into  his  heart. 
So  he  felt  when,  in  the  stillness  that  fell  upon  the 
company,  the  voice  of  Mr.  Elliott  rose  in  blessing 
on  the  good  things  now  spread  for  them  in  such 
lavish  profusion.  Only  one  sentence  took  hold  on 
Mr.  Ridley's  mind.  It  was  this  :  "Giver  of  all  natu- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  6 1 

ral  as  well  as  spiritual  good  things,  of  the  corn  and 
the  wine  equally  with  the  bread  and  the  water  of 
life,  sanctify  these  bounties  that  come  from  thy 
beneficent  hand,  and  keep  us  from  any  inordinate  or 
hurtful  use  thereof." 

Mr.  Ridley  drew  a  deeper  breath.  A  load  seemed 
taken  from  his  bosom.  He  felt  a  sense  of  freedom 
and  safety.  If  the  wine  were  pure,  it  was  a  good 
gift  of  God,  and  could  not  really  do  him  harm.  A 
priest,  claiming  to  stand  as  God's  representative 
among  men,  had  invoked  a  blessing  on  this  juice  of 
the  grape,  and  given  it  by  this  act  a  healthier 
potency.  All  this  crowded  upon  him,  stifling  reason 
and  experience  and  hushing  the  voice  of  prudence. 

And  now,  alas !  he  was  as  a  feather  on  the  surface 
of  a  wind-struck  lake,  and  given  up  to  the  spirit  and 
pressure  of  the  hour.  The  dangerous  fallacy  to 
which  Mr.  Elliott  had  given  utterance  held  his 
thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  considera 
tions.  A  clear  path  out  of  the  dreary  wilderness 
in  which  he  had  been  straying  seemed  to  open 
before  him,  and  he  resolved  to  walk  therein.  Fatal 
delusion !  , 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Ridley  had  supplied  Mrs.  General 
Regan  with  terrapin  and  oysters  and  filled  a  plate 
for  himself,  he  poured  out  two  glasses  of  wine  and 
handed  one  of  them  to  the  lady,  then,  lifting  the 
other,  he  bowed  a  compliment  and  placed  it  to  his 
lips.  The  lady  smiled  on  him  graciously,  sipping 
the  wine  and  praising  its  flavor. 

6 


62  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Pure  as  nectar,"  was  the  mental  response  of 
Mr.  Ridley  as  the  long-denied  palate  felt  the  first 
thrill  of  sweet  satisfaction.  He  had  taken  a  single 
mouthful,  but  another  hand  seemed  to  grasp  the 
one  that  held  the  cup  of  wine  and  press  it  back 
to  his  lips,  from  which  it  was  not  removed  until 
empty. 

The  prescription  of  Mr.  Elliott  failed.  Either  the 
wine  was  not  pure  or  his  theory  was  at  fault.  It 
was  but  little  over  in  hour  from  the  fatal  moment 
when  Mr.  Ridley  put  a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips  ere 
he  went  out  alone  into  the  storm  of  a  long-to-be- 
remembered  night  in  a  state  of  almost  helpless  in- 
voxication,  and  staggered  off  in  the  blinding  snow 
that  soon  covered  his  garments  like  a  winding  s 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  nurse  of  Mrs.  Ridley  had  found  her  in  a 
nervous  chill,  at  which  she  was  greatly  trouMed. 
More  clothing  was  laid  upon  the  bed,  and  bottl/s  of 
hot  water  placed  to  her  feet.  To  all  this  Mrs.  R  idlcy 
made  no  objection — remained,  in  fact,  entirely  passive 
and  irresponsive,  like  one  in  a  partial  stupor,  from 
which  she  did  not,  to  all  appearance,  rally  even  after 
the  chill  had  subsided. 

She  lay  with  her  eyes  shut,  her  lips  pressed  to 
gether  and  her  forehead  drawn  into  lines,  and  an 
expression  of  pain  on  her  face,  answering  only  in 
dull  monosyllables  to  the  inquiries  made  every  now 
and  then  by  her  nurse,  who  hovered  about  the  bed 
and  watched  over  her  with  anxious  solicitude. 

As  she  feared,  fever  symptoms  began  to  show 
themselves.  The  evening  had  worn  away,  and  it  was 
past  ten  o'clock.  It  would  not  do  to  wait  until 
morning  in  a  case  like  this,  and  so  a  servant  was 
sent  to  the  office  of  Dr.  Hillhouse,  with  a  request 
that  he  would  come  immediately.  She  returned 
Stiying  that  the  doctor  was  not  at  home. 

Mrs.  Ridley  lay  with  her  eyes  shut,  but  the  nurse 
knew  by  the  expression  of  her  face  that  she  was  not 

63 


64  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

asleep.  The  paleness  of  her  countenance  had  given 
way  to  a  fever  hue,  and  she  noticed  occasional  rest 
less  movements  of  the  hands,  twitches  of  the  eyelidi, 
and  nervous  starts.  To  her  questions  the  patient 
gave  no  satisfactory  answers. 

An  hour  elapsed,  and  still  the  doctor  did  not  make 
his  appearance.  The  servant  was  called  and  ques 
tioned.  She  was  positive  about  having  left  word  for 
the  doctor  to  come  immediately  on  returning  home. 

"  Is  that  snow?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ridley,  starting  up 
in  bed  and  listening.  The  wind  had  risen  suddenly 
and  swept  in  a  gusty  dash  against  the  windows,  rat 
tling  on  the  glass  the  fine  hard  grains  which  had 
been  falling  for  some  time. 

She  remained  leaning  on  her  arm  and  listening  for 
some  moments,  while  an  almost  frightened  look  came 
into  her  face. 

"  What  time  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  After  eleven  o'clock,"  replied  the  nurse. 

All  at  once  the  storm  seemed  to  have  awakened 
into  a  wild  fury.  More  loudly  it  rushed  and  roared 
and  dashed  its  sand-like  snow  against  the  windows 
of  Mrs.  Ridley's  chamber.  The  sick  woman  shiv 
ered  and  the  fever-flush  died  out  of  her  face. 

"  You  must  lie  down !"  said  the  nurse,  speak 
ing  with  decision  and  putting  her  hands  on  Mrs. 
Ridley  to  press  her  back.  But  the  latter  resisted. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  ma'am,"  urged  the  nurse,  sliow 
ing  great  anxiety,  "you  must  lie1  down  and  keep 
covered  up  in  bed.  It  might  be  the  death  of  you." 


Wounded  in  the  Hoiise  of  a  Friend.          65 

"  Oh,  thitt's  awful !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ridley  as  the 
wind  went  howling  by  and  the  snow  came  in  heavier 
gusts  against  the  windows.  "  Past  eleven,  did  you 
say?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  the  doctor  ought  to  have  been 
here  long  ago.  I  wonder  why  he  doesn't  come  ?" 

"  Hark  !  wasn't  that  our  bell  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Ridley, 
bending  forward  in  a  listening  attitude. 

The  nurse  opened  the  chamber  door  and  stood 
hearkening  for  a  moment  or  two.  Not  hearing  the 
servant  stir,  she  ran  quickly  down  stairs  to  the  street 
door  and  drew  it  open,  but  found  no  one. 

There  was  a  look  of  suspense  and  fear  in  Mrs. 
Ridley's  face  when  the  nurse  came  back: 

"Who  was  it?" 

"  No  one,"  replied  the  nurse.  "  The  wind  de 
ceived  you." 

A  groan  came  from  Mrs.  Ridley's  lips  as  she  sank 
down  upon  the  bed,  where,  with  her  face  hidden,  she 
lay  as  still  as  if  sleeping.  She  did  not  move  nor 
speak  for  the  space  of  more  than  half  an  hour,  and 
all  the  while  her  nurse  waited  and  listened  through 
the  weird,  incessant  noises  of  the  storm  for  the 
coming  of  Dr.  Hillhouse,  but  waited  and  listened 
in  vain. 

All  at  once,  as  if  transferred  to  within  a  few  hun 
dred  rods  of  these  anxious  watchers,  the  great  clock 
of  the  city,  which  in  the  still  hours  of  a  calm  night 
c^uld  be  heard  ringing  out  clear  but  afar  off,  threw 
?  resonant  clang  upon  the  air,  pealing  the  first 
6*  B 


66  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

stroke  of  the  hour  of  twelve.  Mrs.  Ridley  started 
up  in  bed  with  a  scared  look  on  her  face.  Away 
the  sound  rolled,  borne  by  the  impetuous  wind-wave 
tnat  had  caught  it  up  as  the  old  bell  shivered  it  off, 
and  carried  it  away  so  swiftly  that  it  seemed  to  die 
almost  in  the  moment  it  was  born.  The  listeners 
waited,  holding  their  breaths.  Then,  swept  from  the 
course  this  first  peal  had  taken,  the  second  came  to 
their  ears  after  a  long  interval  muffled  and  from  a  dis 
tance,  followed  almost  instantly  by  the  third,  which 
went  booming  past  them  louder  than  the  first.  And 
so,  with  strange  intervals  and  variations  of  time  and 
sound  as  the  wind  dashed  wildly  onward  or  broke 
and  swerved  from  its  course,  the  noon  of  night  was 
struck,  and  the  silence  that  for  a  brief  time  suc 
ceeded  left  a  feeling  of  awe  upon  the  hearts  of  these 
lonely  women. 

To  the  ears  of  another  had  come  these  strange 
and  solemn  tones,  struck  out  at  midnight  away  up 
in  the  clear  rush  of  the  tempest,  and  swept  away  in 
a  kind  of  mad  sport,  and  tossed  about  in  the  murky 
sky.  To  the  ears  of  another,  who,  struggling  and 
battling  with  the  storm,  had  made  his  way  with 
something  of  a  blind  instinct  to  within  a  short  dis 
tance  of  his  home,  every  stroke  of  the  clock  seemed 
to  come  from  a  different  quarter ;  and  when  the  last 
peal  rang  out,  it  left  him  in  helpless  bewilderment. 
When  he  staggered  on  again,  it  was  in  a  direction 
opposite  to  that  in  which  he  had  been  going.  Foi 
ten  minutes  he  wrought  with  the  blinding  and  suf 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          67 

focating  snow,  which,  turn  as  he  would,  the  wind 
kept  dashing  into  his  face,  and  then  his  failing  limbs, 
gave  out  and  he  sunk  benumbed  with  cold  upon  the 
pavement.  Half  buried  in  the  snow,  he  was  dis 
covered  soon  afterward  and  carried  to  a  police  sta,- 
tion,  where  he  found  himself  next  morning  in  one  of 
the  cells,  a  wretched,  humiliated,  despairing  man. 

"Why,  Mr.  Ridley!  It  can't  be  possible!"  It 
was  the  exclamation  of  the  police  magistrate  when 
this  man  was  brought,  soon  after  cUyftght,  befpjre 
him. 

Ridley  stood  dumb  in  presen.ce  of  the  officer,  who 
was  touched  by  the  helpless  misery  of  his  face» 

"  You  were  at  ]\Ir.  ^irtwell's  ?" 

Ridley  answered  by  a  silent  inclination  of  his 
head. 

"  I  do,  not  wonder,"  said  the  magistrate,  his  voice 
softening,  "  that  you  lost  your  way  in  the  storm  last 
night.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  found  him 
self  astray  and  at  fault.  Our  men  had  to  take  care 
of  quite  a  number  of  Mr.  Birtwell's  guests.  But  I 
will  not  detain  you,  Mr.  Ridley.  I  am  sorry  this 
has  happened.  You  must  be  more  careful  in  future." 

With  slow  steps  and  bowed  head  Mr.  Ridley  left 
the  station-house  and  took  his  way  homeward.  How 
could  he  meet  his  wife?  What  of  her?  How  had 
she  passed  the  night  ?  Vividly  came  up  the  parting 
scene  as  she  lay  with  her  babe,  only  a  few  days  old, 
close  against  her  bosom,  her  tender  eyes,  in  which 
he  saw  shadows  of  fear,  fixed  lovingly  upon  his  face. 


68  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

He  had  promised  to  be  home  soon,  and  had  said  a 
fervent  "  God  bless  you !"  as  he  left  a  kiss  warm 
upon  her  lips. 

And  now!  He  stood  still,  a  groan  breaking  on 
the  air.  Go  home  !  How  could  he  look  into  the 
face  of  his  wife  again  ?  She  had  walked  with  him 
through  the  valley  of  humiliation  in  sorrow  and 
suffering  and  shame  for  years,  and  now,  after  going 
up  from  this  valley  and  bearing  her  to  a  pleasant 
land  of  hope  and  happiness,  he  had  plunged  down 
madly.  Then  a  sudden  fear  smote  his  heart.  She 
was  in  no  condition  to  bear  a  shock  such  as  his 
absence  all  night  must  have  caused.  The  conse 
quences  might  be  fatal.  He  started  forward  at  a 
rapid  pace,  hurrying  along  until  he  came  in  sight  of 
his  house.  A  carriage  stood  at  the  door.  What 
could  this  mean  ? 

Entering,  he  was  halfway  up  stairs  when  the 
nurse  met  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ridley,"  she  exclaimed,  "why  did  you 
stay  away  all  night  ?  Mrs.  Ridley  has  been  so  ill, 
and  I  couldn't  get  the  doctor.  Oh,  sir,  I  don't  know 
what  will  come  of  it.  She's  in  a  dreadful  way — - 
out  of  her  head.  I  sent  for  Dr.  Hillhouse  last 
night,  but  he  didn't  come." 

She  spoke  in  a  rapid  manner,  showing  much 
alarm  and  agitation. 

"  Is  Dr.  Hillhouse  here  now  ?"  asked  Mr.  Ridley, 
trying  to  repress  his  feelings. 

"  No,  sir.     He  sent  Dr.  Angier,  but  I  don't  trust 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          69 

much  in  him.  Dr.  Hillhouse  ought  to  see  her  right 
away.  But  you  do  look  awful,  sir !" 

The  nurse  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  in  a  half-won 
dering  stare. 

Mr.  Ridley  broke  from  her,  and  passing  up  the 
stairs  in  two  or  three  long  strides,  made  his  way  to 
the  bath-room,  where  in  a  few  moments  he  changed 
as  best  he  could  his  disordered  appearance,  and 
then  hurried  to  his  wife's  chamber. 

A  wild  cry  of  joy  broke  from  her  lips  as  she  saw 
him  enter ;  but  when  he  came  near,  she  put  up  her 
hands  and  shrunk  away  from  him,  saying  in  a  voice 
that  fairly  wailed,  it  was  so  full  of  disappointment : 

"  I  thought  it  was  Ralph — my  dear,  good  Ralph  ! 
Why  don't  he  come  home  ?" 

Her  cheeks  were  red  with  fever  and  her  eyes 
bright  and  shining.  She  had  started  up  in  bed  on 
hearing  her  husband's  step,  but  now  shrunk  down 
under  the  clothing  and  turned  her  face  away. 

"  Blanche  !  Blanche  !"  Mr.  Ridley  called  the  name 
of  his  wife  tenderly  as  he  stood  leaning  over  her. 

Moving  her  head  slowly,  like  one  in  doubt,  she 
looked  at  him  in  a  curious,  questioning  way.  Then, 
closing  her  eyes,  she  turned  her  face  from  him  again. 

"  Blanche  !  Blanche  !"  For  all  the  response  that 
came,  Mr.  Ridley  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  deaf 
ears.  Dr.  Angier  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm  and 
drew  him  away : 

"She  must  have  as  little  to  disturb  her  as  pos 
sible,  Mr.  Ridley.  The  case  is  serious." 


7<D  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"Where  is  Dr.  Hillhouse  ?  Why  did  not  he 
come  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Ridley. 

'*  He  will  be  here  after  a  while.  It  is  too  early  for 
hirn,"  replied  Dr.  Angier. 

"  He  must  come  now.  Go  for  him  at  once,  doc 
tor." 

"  If  you  say  so,"  returned  Doctor  Angier,  with 
some  coldness  of  manner ;  "  but  I  cannot  tell  how 
soon  he  will  be  here.  He  does  not  go  out  until 
after  eight  or  nine  o'clock,  and  there  are  two  or 
three  pressing  cases  besides  this." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Mr.  Ridley.  "  Don't  think  me 
rude  or  uncourteous,  Dr.  Angier.  I  am  like  one 
distracted.  Stay  here  until  I  get  back.  I  will  bring 
Dr.  Hillhouse." 

"  Take  my  carriage — it  is  at  the  door ;  and  say  to 
Dr.  Hillhouse  from  me  that  I  would  like  him  to 
come  immediately,"  Dr.  Angier  replied  to  this. 

Mr.  Ridley  ran  down  stairs,  and  springing  into 
the  carriage,  ordered  the  driver  to  return  with  all 
possible  speed  to  the  office.  Dr.  Hillhouse  was  in 
bed,  but  rose  on  getting  the  summons  from  Dr.  An 
gier  and  accompanied  Mr.  Ridley.  He  did  not  feel 
in  a  pleasant  humor.  The  night's  indulgence  in 
wine  and  other  allurements  of  the  table  had  not  left 
his  head  clear  nor  his  nerves  steady  for  the  morn 
ing.  A  sense  of  physical  discomfort  made  him 
impatient  and  irritable.  At  first  all  the  conditions 
of  this  case  were  not  clear  to  him ;  but  as  his 
thought  went  back  to  the  incidents  of  the  night, 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  71 

and  he  remembered  not  only  seeing  Mr.  Ridley  in 
considerable  excitement  from  drink,  but  hearing  it 
remarked  upon  by  one  or  two  persons  who  were 
familiar  with  his  life  at  Washington,  the  truth 
dawned  upon  his  mind,  and  he  said  abruptly,  with 
considerable  sternness  of  manner  and  in  a  quick 
voice : 

"  At  what  time  did  you  get  home  last  night?" 

Ridley  made  no  reply. 

"  Or  this  morning?  It  was  nearly  midnight  when 
/  left,  and  you  were  still  there,  and,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  not  in  the  best  condition  for  meeting  a  sick 
wife  at  home.  If  there  is  anything  seriously  wrong 
in  this  case,  the  responsibility  lies,  I  am  afraid,  at 
your  door,  sir."  *• 

They  were  in  the  carriage,  moving  rapidly.  Mr. 
Ridley  sat  with  his  head  drawn  down  and  bent  a 
little  forward ;  not  answering,  Dr.  Hillhouse  said  no 
more.  On  arriving  at  Mr.  Ridley's  residence,  he 
met  Dr.  Angier,  with  whom  he  held  a  brief  confer 
ence  before  seeing  his  patient.  He  found  her  in  no 
favorable  condition.  The  fever  was  not  so  intense 
as  Dr.  Angier  had  found  it  on  his  arrival,  but  its 
effect  on  the  brain  was  more  marked. 

"  Too  much  time  has  been  lost."  Dr.  Hillhouse 
jpoke  aside  to  his  assistant  as  they  sat  together 
watching  carefully  every  symptom  of  their  patient. 

"  I  sent  for  you  before  ten  o'clock  last  night," 
said  the  nurse,  who  overheard  the  remark  and  wished 
to  screen  herself  from  any  blame. 


72  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Dr.  Hillhouse  did  not  reply. 

"  I  knew  there  was  danger,"  pursued  the  nurse 
"  Oh,  doctor,  if  you  had  only  come  when  I  sent  fof 
you !  I  waited  and  waited  until  after  midnight." 

The  doctor  growled  an  impatient  response,  but 
so  muttered  and  mumbled  the  words  that  the  nurse 
could  not  make  them  out.  Mr.  Ridley  was  in  the 
room,  standing  with  folded  arms  a  little  way  from 
the  bed,  stern  and  haggard,  with  wild,  congested 
eyes  and  closely  shut  mouth,  a  picture  of  anguish, 
fear  and  remorse. 

The  two  physicians  remained  with  Mrs.  Ridley  for 
over  twenty  minutes  before  deciding  on  their  line  of 
treatment.  A  prescription  was  then  made,  and  care 
ful  instructions  given  to  the  nurse. 

"  I  will  call  again  in  the  course  of  two  or  three 
hours,"  said  Dr.  Hillhouse,  on  going  away.  "Should 
any  thing  unfavorable  occur,  send  to  the  office  im 
mediately." 

"  Doctor !"  Mr.  Ridley  laid  his  hand  on  the  arm 
of  Dr.  Hillhouse.  "What  of  my  wife?"  There 
was  a  frightened  look  in  his  pale,  agitated  face.  His 
voice  shook. 

"  She  is  in  danger,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  But  you  know  what  to  do  ?  You  can  control 
the  disease  ?  You  have  had  such  cases  before  ?" 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  answered  the  doctor,  trying 
to  move  on ;  but  Mr.  Ridley  clutched  his  ai  m  tightly 
and  held  him  fast : 

"  Is  it — is  it — puer-p-p — "     His  voice   shook  so 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Fnend.          73 

that  he  could  not  articulate  the  word  that  was  on 
his  tongue. 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  returned  the  doctor. 

A  deep  groan  broke  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Ridley. 
His  hand  dropped  from  the  arm  of  Dr.  Hillhouse 
and  he  stood  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  then 
cried  out  in  a  voice  of  unutterable  despair : 

"  From  heaven  down  to  hell  in  one  wild  leap  ! 
God  help  me !" 

Dr.  Hillhouse  was  deeply  moved  at  this.  He  had 
felt  stern  and  angry,  ready  each  moment  to  accuse 
and  condemn,  but  the  intense  emotion  displayed  by 
the  husband  shocked,  subdued  and  changed  his  tone 
of  feeling. 

"  You  must  calm  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said. 
"  The  case  looks  bad,  but  I  have  seen  recovery  in 
worse  cases  than  this.  We  will  do  our  best.  But 
remember  that  you  have  duties  and  responsibilities 
that  must  not  fail." 

"  Whatsoever  in  me  lies,  doctor,"  answered  Mr. 
Ridley,  with  a  sudden  calmness  that  seemed  super 
natural,  "you  may  count  on  my  doing.  If  she  dies, 
I  am  lost."  There  was  a  deep  solemnity  in  his 
tones  as  he  uttered  this  last  sentence.  "  You  see, 
sir,"  he  added,  "what  I  have  at  stake." 

"  Just  for  the  present  little  more  can  be  done  than 
to  follow  the  prescriptions  we  have  given  and  watch 
their  effect  on  the  patient,"  returned  Dr.  Hillhouse 
"  If  any  change  occurs,  favorable  or  unfavorable,  let 
us  know.  If  your  presence  in  her  room  should 

7 


74  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

excite  or  disturb  her  in  any  way,  you   must  pru 
dently  abstain  from  going  near  her." 

The  two  physicians  went  away  with  but  little 
hope  in  their  hearts  for  the  sick  woman.  Whatever 
the  exciting  cause  or  causes  might  have  been,  the 
disease  which  had  taken  hold  of  her  with  unusual 
violence  presented  already  so  fatal  a  type  that  the 
issue  was  very  doubtful. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"TT  is  too  late,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Dr.  Hillhouse  as 
the  two  physicians  rode  away.  "  The  case  ought 
to  have  been  seen  last  night.  I  noticed  the  call 
when  I  came  home  from  Mr.  Birtwell's,  but  the 
storm  was  frightful,  and  I  did  not  feel  like  going 
out  again.  In  fact,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I 
hardly  gave  the  matter  a  thought.  I  saw  the  call, 
but  its  importance  did  not  occur  to  me.  Late  hours, 
suppers  and  wine  do  not  always  leave  the  head  as 
clear  as  it  should  be." 

"  I  do  not  like  the  looks  of  things,"  returned  Dr. 
Angier.  "All  the  symptoms  are  bad." 

"  Yes,  very  bad.  I  saw  Mrs.  Ridley  yesterday 
morning,  and  found  her  doing  well.  No  sign  of 
fever  or  any  functional  disturbance.  She  must  have 
had  some  shock  or  exposure  to  cold." 

"  Her  husband  was  out  all  night.  I  learned  that 
much  from  the  nurse,"  replied  Dr,  Angier.  "When 
the  storm  became  violent,  which  was  soon  after  ten 
o'clock,  she  grew  restless  and  disturbed,  starting 
up  and  listening  as  the  snow  dashed  on  the  window- 
panes  and  the  wind  roared  angrily.  '  I  could  not 
keep  her  down/  said  the  nurse.  '  She  would  spring 

76 


76  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

up  in  bed,  throw  off  the  clothes  and  sit  listening 
with  a  look  of  anxiety  and  dread  on  her  face.  The 
wind  came  in  through  every  chink  and  crevice, 
chilling  the  room  in  spite  of  all  I  could  do  to  keep 
it  warm.  I  soon  saw,  from  the  color  that  began 
coming  into  her  face  and  from  the  brightness  in  hei 
eyes,  that  fever  had  set  in.  I  was  alarmed,  and  sent 
for  the  doctor.' " 

"And  did  this  go  on  all  night?"  asked  Dr.  Hill- 
house. 

"  Yes.  She  never  closed  her  eyes  except  in  in 
tervals  of  feverish  stupor,  from  which  she  would 
start  up  and  cry  out  for  her  husband,  who  was,  she 
imagined,  in  some  dreadful  peril." 

"  Bad  !  bad  !"  muttered  Dr.  Hillhouse.  "  There'll 
be  a  death,  I  fear,  laid  at  Mr.  Birtwell's  door." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  his  companion,  in 
a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Mr.  Ridley,  as  I  have  been  informed,"  returned 
Dr.  Hillhouse,  "  has  been  an  intemperate  man.  After 
falling  very  low,  he  made  an  earnest  effort  to  reform, 
and  so  far  got  the  mastery  of  his  appetite  as  to  hold 
it  in  subjection.  Such  men  are  always  in  danger,  as 
you  and  I  very  well  know.  In  nine  cases  out  of 
ten — or,  I  might  say,  in  ninety-nine  cases  in  a  hun 
dred — to  taste  again  is  to  fall.  It  is  like  cutting  the 
chain  that  holds  a  wild  beast.  The  bound  but  not 
dead  appetite  springs  into  full  vigor  again,  and  sur 
prised  resolution  is  beaten  down  and  conquered. 
To  invite  such  a  man  to  an  entertainment  where 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          77 

wines  and  liquors  are  freely  dispensed  is  to  put  a 
human  soul  in  peril." 

"  Mr.  Birtwell  may  not  have  known  anything 
about  him,"  replied  Dr.  Angier. 

"  All  very  true.  But  there  is  one  thing  he  did 
know." 

"  What  ?" 

"  That  he  could  not  invite  a  company  of  three 
hundred  men  and  women  to  his  house,  though  he 
selected  them  from  the  most  refined  and  intelligent 
circles  in  our  city,  and  give  them  intoxicating  drinks 
as  freely  as  he  did  last  night, without  serious  harm. 
In  such  a  company  there  will  be  some,  like  Mr. 
Ridley,  to  whom  the  cup  of  wine  offered  in  hospi 
tality  will  be  a  cup  of  cursing.  Good  resolutions 
will  be  snapped  like  thread  in  a  candle-flame,  and 
men  who  came  sober  will  go  away,  as  from  any 
other  drinking-saloon,  drunk,  as  he  went  out  last 
night." 

"  Drinking-saloon  !     You  surprise  me,  doctor." 

*'  I  feel  bitter  this  morning ;  and  when  the  bitter 
ness  prevails,  I  am  apt  to  call  things  by  strong  names. 
Yes,  I  say  drinking-saloon,  Doctor  Angier.  What 
matters  it  in  the  dispensation  whether  you  give 
away  or  sell  the  liquor,  whether  it  be  done  over  a 
bar  or  set  out  free  to  every  guest  in  a  merchant's 
elegant  banqueting-room  ?  The  one  is  as  much  a 
liquor-saloon  as  the  other.  Men  go  away  from  one, 
as  from  the  other,  with  heads  confused  and  steps 
unsteady  and  good  resolutions  wrecked  by  indul- 
1* 


78  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

gence.  Knowing  that  such  things  must  follow ; 
that  from  every  fashionable  entertainment  some  men, 
and  women  too,  go  away  weaker  and  in  more  danger 
than  when  they  came ;  that  boys  and  young  men 
are  tempted  to  drink  and  the  feet  of  some  set  in  the 
ways  of  ruin;  that  health  is  injured  and  latent  dis 
eases  quickened  into  force ;  that  evil  rather  than 
good  flows  from  them, — knowing  all  this,  I  say,  can 
any  man  who  so  turns  his  house,  for  a  single  even 
ing,  into  a  drinking-saloon — I  harp  on  the  words, 
you  see,  for  I  am  feeling  bitter — escape  responsi 
bility  ?  No  man  goes  blindly  in  this  way." 

"  Taking  your  view  of  the  case,"  replied  Dr.  An- 
gier,  "  there  may  be  another  death  laid  at  the  door 
of  Mr.  Birtwell." 

"  Whose  ?"  Dr.  Hillhouse  turned  quickly  to  his 
assistant.  They  had  reached  home,  and  were  stand 
ing  in  their  office. 

"  Nothing  has  been  heard  of  Archie  Voss  since 
he  left  Mr.  BirtwelPs  last  night,  and  his  poor  mother 
is  lying  insensible,  broken  down  by  her  fears." 

"  Oh,  what  of  her  ?  I  was  called  for  in  the  night, 
and  you  went  in  my  place." 

44  I  found  Mrs.  Voss  in  a  state  of  coma,  from  which 
she  had  only  partially  recovered  when  I  left  at  day 
light.  Mr.  Voss  is  in  great  anxiety  about  his  son, 
who  has  never  stayed  away  all  night  before,  except 
with  the  knowledge  of  his  parents." 

"  Oh,  that  will  all  come  right,"  said  Dr.  Hillhouse. 
''The  young  man  went  home,  probably,  with  some 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          79 

friend.  Had  too  much  to  drink,  it  may  be,  and  wanted 
to  sleep  it  off  before  coming  into  his  mother's  pres- 
sence." 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  his  having  drank  too 
much,"  returned  Dr.  Angier.  "  I  saw  him  going 
along  the  hall  toward  the  street  door  in  rather  a 
bad  way.  He  had  his  overcoat  on  and  his  hat  in 
his  hand." 

"  Was  any  one  with  him  ?" 

"  I  believe  not.     I  think  he  went  out  alone." 

"  Into  that  dreadful  storm  ?" 

"  Yes." 

The  countenance  of  Dr.  Hillhouse  became  very 
^rave  : 

"And  has  not  been  heard  of  since?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  the  police  been  informed  about  it?" 

"  Yes.  The  police  have  had  the  matter  in  hand 
for  several  hours,  but  at  the  time  I  left  not  the 
smallest  clue  had  been  found." 

"  Rather  a  bad  look,"  said  Dr.  Hillhouse.  "What 
(Joes  Mr.  Voss  say  about  it  ?" 

"  His  mind  seems  to  dwell  on  two  theories — one 
that  Archie,  who  had  a  valuable  diamond  pin  and 
a  gold  watch,  may  have  wandered  into  some  evil 
neighborhood,  bewildered  by  the  storm,  and  there 
been  set  upon  and  robbed — murdered  perhaps.  The 
other  is  that  he  has  fallen  in  some  out-of-the-way 
place,  overcome  by  the  cold,  and  lies  buried  in  the 
snow.  The  fact  that  no  police-officer  reports  having 


80  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

seen  him  or  any  one  answering  to  his  description 
during  the  night  awakens  the  gravest  fears." 

"Still,"  replied  Dr.  Hillhouse,  "it  may  all  come 
out  right.  He  may  have  gone  to  a  hotel.  There 
are  a  dozen  theories  to  set  against  those  of  his 
friends." 

After  remaining  silent  for  several  moments,  he 
said : 

"  The  boy  had  been  drinking  too  much  ?" 

"Yes;  and  I  judge  from  his  manner,  when  I  saw 
him  on  his  way  to  the  street,  that  he  was  conscious 
of  his  condition  and  ashamed  of  it.  He  went  quietly 
along,  evidently  trying  not  to  excite  observation,  but 
his  steps  were  unsteady  and  his  sight  not  true,  for 
in  trying  to  thread  his  way  along  the  hall  he  ran 
against  one  and  another,  and  drew  the  attention  he 
was  seeking  to  avoid." 

"  Poor  fellow !"  said  Dr.  Hillhouse,  with  genuine 
pity.  "  He  was  always  a  nice  boy.  If  anything  has 
happened  to  him,  I  wouldn't  give  a  dime  for  the  life 
of  his  mother." 

"  Nor  I.  And  even  as  it  is,  the  shock  already 
received  may  prove  greater  than  her  exhausted 
system  can  bear.  I  think  you  had  better  see  her, 
doctor,  as  early  as  possible." 

"  There  were  no  especially  bad  symptoms  when 
you  left,  beyond  the  state  of  partial  coma?" 

"  No.  Her  respiration  had  become  easy,  and  she 
presented  the  appearance  of  one  in  a  quiet  sleep." 

"  Nature  is  doing  all  for  her  that  can  be  done," 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          81 

icturned  Dr.  Hillhouse.  "  I  will  see  her  as  early  as 
practicable.  It's  unfortunate  that  we  have  these  two 
cases  on  our  hands  just  at  this  time,  and  most  un 
fortunate  of  all  that  I  should  have  been  compelled 
to  go  o-it  so  early  this  morning.  That  doesn't  look 
right." 

And  the  doctor  held  up  his  hand,  which  showed 
a  nervo  ns  unsteadiness. 

"  It  v  ill  pass  off  after  you  have  taken  breakfast" 

"I  h  >pe  so.  Confound  these  parties!  I  should 
not  hai  e  gone  last  night,  and  if  I'd  given  the  mat 
ter  due  consideration  would  have  remained  at  home." 

"  Why  so  ?" 

"  You  know  what  that  means  as  well  as  I  do ;" 
and  Dr.  Hillhouse  held  up  his  tremulous  hand 
again.  "  We  can't  take  wine  freely  late  at  night 
and  have  our  nerves  in  good  order  next  morning. 
A  life  may  depend  on  a  steady  hand  to-day." 

"  It  will  all  pass  off  at  breakfast-time.  Your  good 
cup  of  coffee  will  make  everything  all  right." 

"  Perhaps  yea,  perhaps  nay,"  was  answered.  "  1 
forgot  myself  last  night,  and  accepted  too  many 
wine  compliments.  It  was  first  this  one  and  then 
that  one,  until,  strong  as  my  head  is,  I  got  more 
into  it  than  should  have  gone  there.  We  are  apt  to 
forget  ourselves  on  these  occasions.  If  I  had  only 
taken  a  glass  or  two,  it  would  have  made  little  dif 
ference.  But  my  system  was  stimulated  beyond 
its  wont,  and,  I  fear,  will  not  be  in  the  right  tone  to 
day." 


82  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  You  will  have  to  bring  it  up,  then,  doctor,"  said 
the  assistant.  "  To  touch  that  work  with  an  un 
steady  hand  might  be  death." 

"  A  glass  or  two  of  wine  will  do  it ;  but  when  1 
operate,  I  always  prefer  to  have  my  head  clear. 
Stimulated  nerves  are  not  to  be  depended  upon,  and 
the  brain  that  has  wine  in  it  is  never  a  sure  guide. 
A  surgeon  must  see  at  the  point  of  his  instrument ; 
and  if  there  be  a  mote  or  any  obscurity  in  his 
mental  vision,  his  hand,  instead  of  working  a  cure, 
may  bring  disaster." 

"  You  operate  at  twelve  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  will  be  all  right  enough  by  that  time ;  but 
it  will  not  do  to  visit  many  patients.  I  am  sorry 
about  this  case  of  child-bed  fever ;  but  I  will  see  it 
again  immediately  after  breakfast,  and  report." 

While  they  were  still  talking  the  bell  rang  vio 
lently,  and  in  a  few  moments  Mr.  Ridley  came  dash 
ing  into  the  office.  His  face  wore  a  look  of  the 
deepest  distress. 

"  Oh,  doctor,"  he  exclaimed,  "  can't  you  do  some 
thing  for  my  wife  ?  She'll  die  if  you  don't.  Oh,  do 
go  to  her  again  !" 

"  Has  any  change  taken  place  since  we  left  ?" 
asked  Dr.  Hillhouse,  with  a  professional  calmness  it 
required  some  effort  to  assume. 

"She  is  in  great  distress,  moaning  and  sobbing 
and  crying  out  as  if  in  dreadful  pain,  and  she  doesn't 
know  anything  you  say  to  her." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  83 

The  two  physicians  looked  at  each  other  with 
sober  faces. 

"  You'd  better  see  her  again,"  said  Dr.  Hiilhouse, 
speaking  to  his  assistant. 

"  No,  no,  no,  Dr.  Hiilhouse !  You  must  see  her 
yourself.  It  is  a  case  of  life  and  death  !"  cried  out 
the  distracted  husband.  "  The  responsibility  is  yours, 
and  I  must  and  will  hold  you  to  that  responsibility. 
1  placed  my  wife  in  your  charge,  not  in  that  of  this 
or  any  other  man." 

Mr.  Ridley  was  beside  himself  with  fear.  At  first 
Dr.  Hiilhouse  felt  like  resenting  this  assault,  but  he 
controlled  himself. 

"  You  forget  yourself,  Mr.  Ridley,"  he  answered, 
in  a  repressed  voice.  "  We  do  not  help  things  by 
passion  or  intemperance  of  language.  I  saw  your 
wife  less  than  half  an  hour  ago,  and  after  giving  the 
utmost  care  to  the  examination  of  her  case  made 
the  best  prescription  in  my  power.  There  has  not 
been  time  for  the  medicines  to  act  yet.  I  know  how 
troubled  you  must  feel,  and  can  pardon  your  not 
very  courteous  bearing;  but  there  are  some  things 
that  can  and  some  things  that  cannot  be  done. 
There  are  good  reasons  why  it  will  not  be  right  for 
me  to  return  to  your  house  now — reasons  affecting 
the  safety,  it  may  be  the  life,  of  another,  while  my 
not  going  back  with  you  can  make  no  difference  to 
Mrs.  Ridley.  Dr.  Angier  is  fully  competent  to  re 
port  on  her  condition,  and  I  can  decide  OP  any 
change  of  treatment  that  may  be  required  as  cer- 


84  Wounded  in  the  House  uf  a  Friend. 

tainly  as  if  I  saw  her  myself.  Should  he  find  any 
change  for  the  worse,  I  will  consider  it  my  duty  to 
see  hei  without  delay." 

"  Don't  neglect  her,  for  God's  sake,  doctor !"  an 
swered  Mr.  Ridley,  in  a  pleading  voice.  His  man 
ner  had  grown  subdued.  "  Forgive  my  seeming  dis 
courtesy.  I  am  wellnigh  distracted.  If  I  lose  her,  I 
lose  my  hold  on  everything.  Oh,  doctor,  you  can 
not  know  how  much  is  at  stake.  God  help  me  if 
she  dies !" 

"  My  dear  sir,  nothing  in  our  power  to  do  shall  be 
neglected.  Dr.  Angier  will  go  back  with  you  ;  and 
if,  on  his  return,  I  am  satisfied  that  there  is  a  change 
for  the  worse,  I  will  see  your  wife  without  a  mo 
ment's  delay.  And  in  the  mean  time,  if  you  wish 
to  call  in  another  physician,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have 
you  do  so.  Fix  the  time  for  consultation  at  any 
hour  before  half-past  ten  o'clock,  and  I  will  meet 
him.  After  that  I  shall  be  engaged  professionally 
for  two  or  three  hours." 

Dr.  Angier  returned  with  Mr.  Ridley,  and  Di. 
Hillhouse  went  to  his  chamber  to  make  ready  for 
breakfast.  His  hands  were  so  unsteady  as  he  made 
his  toilette  for  the  day  that,  in  the  face  of  what  he 
had  said  to  his  assistant  only  a  little  while  before, 
he  poured  himself  a  glass  of  wine  and  drank  it  off, 
remarking  aloud  as  he  did  so,  as  if  apologizing  for 
fhe  act  to  some  one  invisibly  present : 

"  I  can't  let  this  go  on  any  longer." 

The  breakfast-bell  rang,  and  the  doctor  sat  down 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          85 

to  get  the  better  nerve-sustainer  of  a  good  meal. 
But  even  as  he  reached  his  hand  for  the  fragrant 
coffee  that  his  wife  had  poured  for  him,  he  felt  a 
single  dull  throb  in  one  of  his  temples,  and  knew  too 
well  its  meaning.  He  did  not  lift  the  coffee  to  his 
mouth,  but  sat  with  a  grave  face  and  an  unusually 
quiet  manner.  He  had  made  a  serious  mistake,  and 
he  knew  it.  That  glass  of  wine  had  stimulated  the 
relaxed  nerves  of  his  stomach  too  suddenly,  and 
sent  a  shock  to  the  exhausted  brain.  A  slight  feel 
ing  of  nausea  was  perceived,  and  then  came  another 
throb  stronger  than  the  first,  and  with  a  faint  sugges 
tion  of  pain.  This  was  followed  by  a  sense  of  phys 
ical  depression  and  discomfort. 

"  What's  the  matter,  doctor  ?"  asked  his  wife,  who 
saw  something  unusual  in  his  manner. 

"A  feeling  here  that  I  don't  just  like,"  he  replied, 
touching  his  temple  with  a  finger. 

"  Not  going  to  have  a  headache  ?" 

"  I  trust  not.  It  would  be  a  bad  thing  for  me  to 
day." 

He  slowly  lifted  his  cup  of  coffee  and  sipped  a  part 
of  it. 

"  Late  suppers  and  late  hours  may  do  for  youngei 
people,"  said  Mrs.  Hillhouse.  "/  feel  wretched  this 
morning,  and  am  not  surprised  that  your  nerves  are 
out  of  order,  nor  that  you  should  be  threatened 
with  headache." 

The  doctor  did  not  reply.     He  sipped  his  coffee 
again,  but  without  apparent  relish,  and,  instead  of 
8 


8tf  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

eating  anything,  sat  in  an  unusually  quiet  mannei 
and  with  a  very  sober  aspect  of  countenance. 

"  I  don't  want  a  mouthful  of  breakfast,"  said  Mrs. 
Hillhouse,  pushing  away  her  plate. 

"Nor  I,"  replied  the  doctor;  "but  I  can't  begin 
to-day  on  an  empty  stomach." 

And  he  tried  to  force  himself  to  take  food,  but 
made  little  progress  in  the  effort. 

"  It's  dreadful  about  Archie  Voss,"  said  Mrs.  Hill- 
house. 

"  Oh,  he'll  come  up  all  right,"  returned  her  hus 
band,  with  some  impatience  in  his  voice. 

"  I  hope  so.  But  if  he  were  my  son,  I'd  rather  see 
him  in  his  grave  than  as  I  saw  him  last  night." 

"  It's  very  easy  to  talk  in  that  way ;  but  if  Archie 
were  your  son,  you'd  not  be  very  long  in  choosing 
between  death  and  a  glass  or  two  of  wine  more 
than  he  had  strength  to  carry." 

"  If  he  were  my  son,"  replied  the  doctor's  wife, 
"I  would  do  all  in  my  power  to  keep  him  away 
from  entertainments  where  liquor  is  served  in  such 
profusion.  The  danger  is  too  great." 

"He  would  have  to  take  his  chances  with  the 
rest,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  All  that  we  could  pos 
sibly  do  would  be  to  teach  him  moderation  and  self- 
denial." 

"  If  there  is  little  moderation  and  self-denial  among 
-the   full-grown    men   and  women  who    are  met  on 
these   occasions,  what   can  be   expected   from   lads 
and  young  men?" 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          8; 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  made  no 
reply. 

"  We  cannot  shut  our  eyes  to  the  fact,"  continued 
his  wife,  "  that  this  free  dispensation  of  wine  to  old 
and  young  is  an  evil  of  great  magnitude,  and  that  it 
is  doing  a  vast  amount  of  harm." 

The  doctor  still  kept  silent.  He  was  not  in  a 
mood  for  discussing  this  or  any  other  social  ques 
tion.  His  mind  was  going  in  another  direction,  and 
his  thoughts  were  troubling  him.  Dr.  Hillhouse 
was  a  surgeon  of  great  experience,  and  known 
throughout  the  country  for  his  successful  opera 
tions  in  some  of  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous 
cases  with  which  the  profession  has  to  deal.  On 
this  particular  day,  at  twelve  o'clock,  he  had  to  per 
form  an  operation  of  the  most  delicate  nature,  in 
volving  the  life  or  death  of  a  patient. 

He  might  well  feel  troubled,  for  he  knew,  from 
signs  too  well  understood,  that  when  twelve  o'clock 
came,  and  his  patient  lay  helpless  and  unconscious 
before  him,  his  hand  would  not  be  steady  nor  his 
brain  clear.  Healthy  food  would  not  restore  the 
natural  vigor  which  stimulation  had  weakened,  for 
he  had  no  appetite  for  food.  His  stomach  turned 
away  from  it  with  loathing. 

By  this  time  the  throb  in  his  temple  had  become 
a  stroke  of  pain.  While  still  sitting  at  the  break 
fast-table  Dr.  Angier  returned  from  his  visit  to  Mrs 
Ridley.  Dr.  Hillhouse  saw  by  the  expression  of 
bis  face  that  he  did  not  bring  a  good  report. 


88  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  How  is  she?"  he  asked. 

'*  In  a  very  bad  way,"  replied  Dr.  Angier. 

"  New  symptoms  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"What?" 

"  Intense  pain,  rigors,  hurried  respiration  and  pulse 
up  to  a  hundred  and  twenty.  It  looks  like  a  case  of 
puerperal  peritonitis." 

Dr.  Hillhouse  started  from  the  table;  the  trouble 
on  his  face  grew  deeper. 

"  You  had  better  see  her  with  as  little  delay  as 
possible,"  said  Dr.  Angier. 

"  Did  you  make  any  new  prescription  ?" 

"  No." 

Dr.  Hillhouse  shut  his  lips  tightly  and  knit  his 
brows.  He  stood  irresolute  for  several  moments. 

"  Most  unfortunate  !"  he  ejaculated.  Then,  going 
into  his  office,  he  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  his  car 
riage  brought  round  immediately. 

Dr.  Angier  had  made  no  exaggerated  report  of 
Mrs.  Ridley's  condition.  Dr.  Hillhouse  found  that 
serious  complications  were  rapidly  taking  place,  and 
that  all  the  symptoms  indicated  inflammation  of  the 
peritoneum.  The  patient  was  in  great  pain,  though 
with  less  cerebral  disturbance  than  when  he  had  seen 
her  last.  There  was  danger,  and  he  knew  it.  The 
disease  had  taken  on  a  form  that  usually  baffles 
the  skill  of  our  most  eminent  physicians,  and  Dr. 
Hillhouse  saw  little  chance  of  anything  but  a  fatal 
termination.  He  could  do  nothing  except  to  palliate 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          89 

as  far  as  possible  the  patient's  intense  suffering  and 
endeavor  to  check  farther  complications.  But  he 
saw  little  to  give  encouragement. 

Mr.  Ridley,  with  pale,  anxious  face,  and  eyes  in 
which  were  pictured  the  unutterable  anguish  of  his 
soul,  watched  Dr.  Hillhouse  as  he  sat  by  his  wife's 
bedside  with  an  eager  interest  and  suspense  that  was 
painful  to  see.  He  followed  him  when  he  lett  the 
room,  and  his  hand  closed  on  his  arm  with  a  spasm 
as  the  door  shut  behind  them. 

"How  is  she,  doctor?"  he  asked,  in  a  noarse, 
panting  whisper. 

"  She  is  very  sick,  Mr.  Ridley,"  replied  Dr.  Hill- 
house.  "  It  would  be  wrong  to  deceive  you." 

The  pale,  haggard  face  of  Mr.  Ridley  grew  whrter. 

"  Oh,  doctor,"  he  gasped,  "  can  nothing  be  done  ?" 

"  I  think  we  had  better  call  in  another  physician," 
replied  the  doctor.  "  In  the  multitude  of  counselors 
there  is  wisdom.  Have  you  any  choice  ?" 

But  Mr.  Ridley  had  none. 

"  Shall  it  be  Dr.  Ainsworth  ?  He  has  large  expe 
rience  in  this  class  of  diseases." 

"  I  leave  it  entirely  with  you,  Dr.  Hillhouse.  Get 
the  best  advice  and  help  the  city  affords,  and  for 
God's  sake  save  my  wife." 

The  doctor  went  away,  and  Mr.  Ridley,  shaking 
with  nervous  tremors,  dropped  weak  and  helpless 
into  a  chair,  and  bending  forward  until  his  head 
rested  on  his  knees,  sat  crouching  down,  an  image 
"){  suffering  and  despair. 

8*  ' 


CHAPTER  IX. 

'T^LLIS,  my  son." 

J— <*  There  was  a  little  break  and  tremor  in  the 
voice.  The  young  man  addressed  was  passing  the 
door  of  his  mother's  room,  and  paused  on  hearing 
his  name, 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  stepping  inside  and  look 
ing  curiously  into  his  mother's  face,  where  he  saw  a 
more  than  usually  serious  expression. 

"  Sit  down,  Ellis  ;  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  be 
fore  going  to  Mrs.  Birtwell's." 

The  lady  had  just  completed  her  toilette,  and 
was  elegantly  dressed  for  an  evening  party.  She 
was  a  handsome,  stately-looking  woman,  with  dark 
hair  through  which  ran  many  veins  of  silver,  large, 
thoughtful  eyes  and  a  mouth  of  peculiar  sweetness. 

The  young  man  took  a  chair,  and  his  mother 
seated  herself  in  front  of  him. 

"  Ellis." 

The  tremor  still  remained  in  her  voice. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

The  young  man  assumed  a  careless  air,  but  was 
not  at  ease. 

"  There  is  a  good  old  adage,  my  son,  the  remem- 
•  90 


Wounded  in  the  Hotise  of  a  Ft  lend.         <ji 

brance  of  which  has  saved  many  a  one  in  the  hour 
of  danger:  Forewarned, forearmed'' 

"  Oh,  then  you  think  we  are  going  into  danger 
to-night?"  he  answered,  in  a  light  tone. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  we  are  going  where  some 
will  find  themselves  in  great  peril,"  replied  the 
mother,  her  manner  growing  more  serious ;  "  and  it 
is  because  of  this  that  I  wish  to  say  a  word  or  two 
now." 

"  Very  well,  mother ;  say  on." 

He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  showed  signs 
of  impatience. 

"  You  must  take  it  kindly,  Ellis,  and  remember 
that  it  is  your  mother  who  is  speaking,  your  best 
and  truest  friend  in  all  the  world." 

"  Good  Heavens,  mother !  what  are  you  driving 
at?  One  would  think  we  were  going  into  a  howling 
wilderness,  among  savages  and  wild  beasts,  instead 
of  into  a  company  of  the  most  cultured  and  refined 
people  in  a  Christian  city." 

"  There  is  danger  everywhere,  my  son,"  the  mother 
replied,  with  increasing  sobriety  of  manner,  "  and 
the  highest  civilization  of  the  day  has  its  perils  as 
well  as  the  lowest  conditions  of  society.  The  enemy 
hides  in  ambush  everywhere — in  the  gay  drawing- 
room  as  well  as  in  the  meanest  hovel." 

She  paused,  and  mother  and  son  looked  into  each 
other's  faces  in  silence  for  several  moments.  Then 
the  former  said : 

"  I   must  speak  plainly,  Ellis.     You  are   not  as 


%2  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

guarded  as  you  should  be  on  these  occasions.  You 
take  wine  too  freely." 

"  Oh,  mother!"  His  voice  was  half  surprised,  half 
angry.  A  red  flush  mounted  to  cheeks  and  fore 
head.  Rising,  he  walked  the  room  in  an  agitated 
manner,  and  then  came  and  sat  down.  The  color 
had  gone  out  of  his  face: 

"  How  could  you  say  so,  mother  ?  You  do  me 
wrong.  It  is  a  mistake." 

The  lady  shook  her  head : 

"  No,  my  son,  it  is  true.  A  mother's  eyes  rarely 
deceive  her.  You  took  wine  too  freely  both  at  Mrs, 
Judson's  and  Mrs.  Ingersoll's,  and  acted  so  little 
like  my  gentlemanly,  dignified  son  that  my  cheeks 
burned  and  my  heart  ached  with  mortification.  I 
saw  in  other  eyes  that  looked  at  you  both  pity  and 
condemnation.  Ah,  my  son  !  there  was  more  of  bit' 
terness  in  that  for  a  mother's  heart  than  you  will 
ever  comprehend." 

Her  voice  broke  into  a  sob. 

"  My  dear,  dear  mother,"  returned  the  young 
man,  exhibiting  much  distress,  "you  and  others 
exaggerated  what  you  saw.  I  might  have  been  a 
trifle  gay,  and  who  is  not  after  a  glass  or  two  of 
champagne  ?  I  was  no  gayer  than  the  rest.  When 
young  people  get  together,  and  one  spurs  another  on, 
they  are  apt  to  grow  a  little  wild.  But  to  call  high 
spirits,  even  noisy  high  spirits,  intoxication  is  unjust. 
You  must  not  be  too  hard  on  me,  mother,  nor  let 
your  care  for  your  son  lead  you  into  needless  appre- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          93 

hensions.  I  am  in  no  danger  here.  Set  your  heart 
at  rest  on  that  score." 

But  this  was  impossible.  Mrs.  Whitford  knew 
there  was  danger,  and  that  of  the  gravest  character. 
Two  years  before,  her  son  had  come  home  from  col 
lege,  where  he  had  graduated  with  all  the  honors 
her  heart  could  desire,  a  pure,  high-toned  young 
man,  possessing  talents  of  no  common  order.  His 
father  wished  him  to  study  law ;  and  as  his  own  in 
clinations  led  in  that  direction,  he  went  into  the 
office  of  one  of  the  best  practitioners  in  the  city,  and 
studied  for  his  profession  with  the  same  thorough- 
ne^s  that  had  distinguished  him  while  in  college. 
He  had  just  been  admitted  to  the  bar. 

For  the  first  year  after  his  return  home  Mrs.  Whit- 
ford  saw  nothing  in  her  son  to  awaken  uneasiness. 
His  cultivated  tastes  and  love  of  intellectual  things 
held  him  above  the  enervating  influences  of  the 
social  life  into  which  he  was  becoming  more  and 
more  drawn.  Her  first  feeling  of  uneasiness  came 
when,  at  a  large  party  given  by  one  of  her  most 
intimate  friends,  she  heard  his  voice  ring  out  sud 
denly  in  the  supper-room.  Looking  down  the  table, 
she  saw  him  with  a  glass  of  champagne  in  his  hand, 
which  he  was  flourishing  about  in  rather  an  excited 
way.  There  was  a  gay  group  of  young  girls  around 
him,  who  laughed  merrily  at  the  sport  he  made. 
Mrs.  Whitford's  pleasure  was  gone  for  that  evening. 
A  shadow  came  down  on  the  bright  future  of  her 
son — a  future  to  which  her  heart  had  turned  with 


94  Wounded  m  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

such  proud  anticipations.  She  was  oppressed  by  a 
sense  of  humiliation.  Her  son  had  stepped  down 
from  his  pedestal  of  dignified  self-respect,  and  stood 
among  the  common  herd  of  vulgar  young  men  to 
whom  in  her  eyes  he  had  always  been  superior. 

But  greater  than  her  humiliation  were  the  fears 
of  Mrs.  Whitford.  A  thoughtful  and  observant 
woman,  she  had  reason  for  magnifying  the  dangers 
that  lay  in  the  path  of  her  son.  The  curse  of  more 
than  one  member  of  both  her  own  and  husband's 
family  had  been  intemperance.  While  still  a  young 
man  her  father  had  lost  his  self-control,  and  her 
memory  of  him  was  a  shadow  of  pain  and  sorrow. 
He  died  at  an  early  age,  the  victim  of  an  insatiable 
and  consuming  desire  for  drink.  Her  husband's 
father  had  been  what  is  called  a  "  free  liver" — that  is, 
a  man  who  gave  free  indulgence  to  his  appetites,  eat 
ing  and  drinking  to  excess,  and  being  at  all  times 
more  or  less  under  the  influence  of  wine  or  spirits. 

It  was  the  hereditary  taint  that  Mrs.  Whitford 
dreaded.  Here  lay  the  ground  of  her  deepest  anx 
iety.  She  had  heard  and  thought  enough  on  this 
subject  to  know  that  parents  transmit  to  their  chil 
dren  an  inclination  to  do  the  things  they  have  done 
from  habit — strong  or  weak,  according  to  the  power 
of  the  habit  indulged.  If  the  habit  be  an  evil  one, 
then  the  children  are  in  more  than  common  danger, 
and  need  the  wisest  care  and  protection.  She  knew, 
also,  from  reading  and  observation,  that  an  evil  habit 
of  mind  or  body  which  did  not  show  itself  in  the 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          95 

second  generation  would  often  be  reproduced  in  the 
th-ird,  ^and  assert  a  power  that  it  required  the  ut 
most  strength  of  will  and  the  greatest  watchfulness 
to  subdue. 

And  so,  when  her  son,  replying  to  her  earnest 
warning,  said,  "  I  am  in  no  danger.  Set  your  heart 
at  rest,"  she  knew  better — knew  that  a  deadly  ser 
pent  was  in  the  path  he  was  treading.  And  she 
answered  him  with  increasing  earnestness : 

"  The  danger  may  be  far  greater  than  you  imagine, 
Ellis.  It  is  greater  than  you  imagine." 

Her  voice  changed  as  she  uttered  the  last  sen 
tence  into  a  tone  that  was  almost  solemn. 

"You  are  talking  wildly,"  returned  the  young 
m-an,  "  and  pay  but  a  poor  compliment  to  your  son's 
character  and  strength  of  will.  In  danger  of  be 
coming  a  sot ! — for  that  is  what  you  mean.  If  you 
were  not  my  mother,  I  should  be  angry  beyond  self- 
control." 

"  Ellis,"  said  Mrs.  Whitford,  laying  her  hand  upon 
the  arm  of  her  son  and  speaking  with  slow  impress- 
iveness,  "  I  am  older  than  you  are  by  nearly  thirty 
years,  have  seen  more  of  life  than  you  have,  and 
know  some  things  that  you  do  not  know.  I  have  your 
welfare  at  heart  more  deeply  than  any  other  being 
except  God.  I  know  you  better  in  some  things  than 
you  know  yourself.  Love  makes  me  clear-seeing. 
And  this  is  why  I  am  in  such  earnest  with  you  to 
night.  Ellis,  I  want  a  promise  from  you.  I  ask  it 
in  the  name  of  all  that  is  dearest  to  you — in  my 


96  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

name — in  the   name  of  Blanche — in  the   name  of 
God !" 

All  the  color  had  gone  out  of  Mrs.  Whitford's 
face,  and  she  stood  trembling  before  her  son. 

"  You  frighten  me,  mother,"  exclaimed  the  young 
man.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  all  this  ?  Has  any 
one  been  filling  your  mind  with  lies  about  me  ?" 

"  No ;  none  would  dare  speak  to  me  of  you  in 
anything  but  praise.  But  I  want  you  to  promise 
to-night,  Ellis.  I  must  have  that,  and  then  my  heart 
will  be  at  ease.  It  will  be  a  little  thing  for  you,  but 
for  me  rest  and  peace  and  confidence  in  the  place  of 
terrible  anxieties." 

"  Promise !  What  ?  Some  wild  fancies  have  taken 
hold  of  you." 

"  No  wild  fancies,  but  a  fear  grounded  in  things 
of  which  I  would  not  speak.  Ellis,  I  want  you  to 
give  up  the  use  of  wine." 

The  young  man  did  not  answer  immediately.  All 
the  nervous  restlessness  he  had  exhibited  died  out 
in  a  moment,  and  he  stood  very  still,  the  ruddy 
marks  of  excitement  going  out  of  his  face.  His 
eyes  were  turned  from  his  mother  and  cast  upon  the 
floor. 

"  And  so  it  has  come  to  this,"  he  said,  huskily, 
and  in  a  tone  of  humiliation.  "  My  mother  thinks 
me  in  danger  of  becoming  a  drunkard — thinks  me 
so  weak  that  I  cannot  be  trusted  to  take  even  a 
glass  of  wine." 

"  Ellis  1"     Mrs.  Whitford  again  laid  her  hand  upon 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.  97 

the  arm  of  her  son.  "Ellis,"  her  voice  had  fallen 
to  a  deep  whisper,  "if  I  must  speak,  I  must.  There 
are  ancestors  who  leave  fatal  legacies  to  the  genera 
tions  that  come  after  them,  and  you  are  one  accursed 
by  such  a  legacy.  There  is  a  taint  in  your  blood,  a 
latent  fire  that  a  spark  may  kindle  into  a  consuming 
flame." 

She  panted  as  she  spoke  with  hurried  utterance. 

"  My  father !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  an 
indignant  flash  in  his  eyes. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  I  don't  mean  that.  But  there  is  a 
curse  that  descends  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera 
tion,"  replied  Mrs.  Whitford,  "and  you  have  the 
legacy  of  that  curse.  But  it  will  be  harmless  unless 
with  your  own  hand  you  drag  it  down,  and  this  is 
why  I  ask  you  to  abstain  from  wine.  Others  may 
be  safe,  but  for  you  there  is  peril." 

"A  scarecrow,  a  mere  fancy,  a  figment  of  some 
fanatic's  brain ;"  and  Ellis  Whitford  rejected  the  idea 
in  a  voice  full  of  contempt. 

But  the  pallor  and  solemnity  of  his  mother's  face 
warned  him  that  such  a  treatment  of  her  fears  could 
not  allay  them.  Moreover,  the  hint  of  ancestral 
disgrace  had  shocked  his  family  pride. 

"  A  sad  and  painful  truth,"  Mrs.  Whitford  returned, 
"  and  one  that  it  will  be  folly  for  you  to  ignore.  You 
do  not  stand  in  the  same  freedom  in  which  many 
others  stand.  That  is  your  misfortune.  But  you 
can  no  more  disregard  the  fact  than  can  one  born 
with  a  hereditary  taint  of  consumption  in  his  blood 
9  G 


98  Wounded  in  the  House  of  a,  Friend. 

disregard  the  loss  of  health  and  hope  to  escape  the 
fatal  consequences.  There  is  for  every  one  of  us  '  a 
sin  that  doth  easily  beset,'  a  hereditary  inclination 
that  must  be  guarded  and  denied,  or  it  will  grow 
and  strengthen  until  it  becomes  a  giant  to  enslave 
us.  Where  your  danger  lies  I  have  said ;  and  if 
you  would  be  safe,  set  bars  and  bolts  to  the  door 
of  appetite,  and  suffer  not  your  enemy  to  cross  the 
threshold  of  life." 

Mrs.  Whitford  spoke  with  regaining  calmness,  but 
in  tones  of  solemn  admonition. 

A  long  silence  followed,  broken  at  length  by  the 
young  man,  who  said,  in  a  choking,  depressed  voice 
that  betrayed  a  quiver  of  impatience : 

"  I'm  sorry  for  all  this.  That  your  fears  ar^» 
groundless  I  know,  but  you  are  none  the  less  tor 
mented  by  them.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  To  spare 
you  pain  I  would  sacrifice  almost  anything,  but  this 
humiliation  is  more  than  I  am  strong  enough  to 
encounter.  If,  as  you  say,  there  has  been  intemper 
ance  in  our  family,  it  is  not  a  secret  locked  up  in 
your  bosom.  Society  knows  all  about  the  ancestry 
of  its  members,  who  and  what  the  fathers  and  grand 
fathers  were,  and  we  have  not  escaped  investigation. 
Don't  touch  wine,  you  say.  Very  well.  I  go  to 
Mrs.  Birtwell's  to-night.  Young  and  old,  men  and 
women,  all  are  partakers,  but  I  stand  aloof — I,  of  all 
the  guests,  refuse  the  hospitality  I  have  pretended  to 
accept.  Can  I  do  this  without  attracting  attention 
5r  occasioning  remark?  No;  and  what  will  be 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.          99 

said  ?  Simply  this — that  I  know  my  danger  and 
am  afraid;  that  there  is  in  my  blood  the  heredi 
tary  taint  of  drunkenness,  and  that  I  dare  not  touch 
a  glass  of  wine.  Mother,  I  am  not  strong  enough 
to  brave  society  on  such  an  issue,  and  a  false  one  at 
that.  To  fear  and  fly  does  not  belong  to  my  nature. 
A  coward  I  despise.  If  there  is  danger  in  my  way 
and  it  is  right  for  me  to  go  forward  in  that  way,  I 
will  walk  steadily  on,  and  fight  if  I  must.  I  am  not 
a  craven,  but  a  man.  If  the  taint  of  which  you 
speak  is  in  my  blood,  I  will  extinguish  it.  If  I  am 
in  danger,  I  will  not  save  myself  by  flight,  but  by 
conquest.  The  taint  shall  not  go  down  to  another 
generation ;  it  shall  be  removed  in  this." 

He  spoke  with  a  fine  enthusiasm  kindling  ovei 
his  handsome  face,  and  his  mother's  heart  beat  with 
a  pride  that  for  the  moment  was  stronger  than  fear. 

"  Ask  of  me  anything  except  to  give  up  my  self- 
respect  and  my  manliness,"  he  added.  "  Say  that 
you  wish  me  to  remain  at  home,  and  I  will  not  gq 
to  the  party." 

"  No,  I  do  not  ask  that.  I  wish  you  to  go.  But — " 
•  "  If  I  go,  I  must  do  as  the  rest,  and  you  must 
have  faith  in  me.  Forewarned,  forearmed.  I  will 
heed  your  admonition." 

So  the  interview  ended,  and  mother  and  son  went 
to  the  grand  entertainment  at  Mr.  Birtwell's.  Ellis 
did  mean  to  heed  his  mother's  admonition.  What 
she  had  said  about  the  danger  in  which  he  stood 
had  made  a  deeper  impression  on  him  than  Mrs. 


I  GO         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Whitford  thought.  But  he  did  not  propose  to  heed 
by  abstinence,  but  by  moderation.  He  would  be  on 
guard  and  always  ready  for  the  hidden  foe,  if  such 
a  foe  really  existed  anywhere  but  in  his  mother's 
fancy. 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Whitford !  Glad  to  see  you  this  even 
ing;"  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Brantley  Elliott  gave  the 
lady  a  graceful  and  cordial  bow.  "  Had  the  plea 
sure  of  meeting  your  son  a  few  moments  ago — a 
splendid  young  man,  if  you  will  pardon  me  for  say 
ing  so.  How  much  a  year  has  improved  him  !" 

Mrs.  Whitford  bowed  her  grateful  acknowledg 
ment. 

"  Just  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  I  learn,"  said  Mr. 
Elliott. 

"  Yes,  sir.     He  has  taken  his  start  in  life." 

"  And  will  make  his  mark,  or  I  am  mistaken. 
You  have  reason  to  feel  proud  of  him,  ma'am." 

"That  she  has,"  spoke  out  Dr.  Hillhouse,  who 
came  up  at  the  moment.  "  When  so  many  of  our 
young  men  are  content  to  be  idle  drones — to  let 
their  fathers  achieve  eminence  or  move  the  world 
by  the  force  of  thought  and  will — it  is  gratifying 
to  see  one  of  their  number  taking  his  place  in  the 
ranks  and  setting  his  face  toward  conquest.  When 
the  sons  of  two-thirds  of  our  rich  men  are  forgotten, 
or  remembered  only  as  idlers  or  nobodies,  or  worse, 
your  son  will  stand  among  the  men  who  leave  their 
'nark  upon  the  generations." 

"  If  he  escapes  the  dangers  that  lie  too  thickly  iu 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         101 

the  way  of  all  young  men,"  returned  Mrs.  Whitford, 
speaking  almost  involuntarily  of  what  was  in  her 
heart,  and  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  more  concern 
than  she  had  meant  to  express. 

The  doctor  gave  a  little  shrug,  but  replied: 

"  His  earnest  purpose  in  life  will  be  his  protec 
tion,  Mrs.  Whitford.  Work,  ambition,  devotion  to 
a  science  or  profession  have  in  them  an  aegis  of 
safety.  The  weak  and  the  idle  are  most  in  dan- 
ger." 

"  It  is  wrong,  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  said 
Mrs.  Whitford,  speaking  both  to  the  physician  and 
the  clergyman,  "  for  society  to  set  so  many  tempta 
tions  before  its  young  men — the  seed,  as  some  one 
has  forcibly  said,  of  the  nation's  future  harvest." 

"  Society  doesn't  care  much  for  anything  but  its 
own  gratification,"  replied  Dr.  Hillhouse,  "  and  says 
as  plainly  as  actions  can  do  it,  '  After  me  the 
deluge.'  " 

"  Rather  hard  on  society,"  remarked  Mr.  Elliott. 

"  Now  take,  for  instance,  its  drinking  customs, 
its  toleration  and  participation  in  the  freest  public 
and  private  dispensation  of  intoxicating  liquors  to 
all  classes,  weak  or  strong,  young  or  old.  Is  there 
not  danger  in  this — great  danger?  I  think  I  un 
derstand  you,  Mrs.  Whitford." 

"  Yes,  doctor,  you  understand  me ;"  and  dropping 
her  voice  to  a  lower  tone,  Mrs.  Whitford  added: 
"There  are  wives  and  mothers  and  sisters  not  a  few 
here  to-night  whose  hearts,  though  they  may  wear 


IO2         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

smiles  on  their  faces,  are  ill  at  ease,  and  some  of 
them  will  go  home  from  these  festivities  sadder  than 
when  they  came." 

"  Right  about  that,"  said  the  doctor  to  himself  as 
he  turned  away,  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Whitford's  having 
come  up  at  the  moment  and  interrupted  the  conver 
sation — "  right  about  that ;  and  you,  I  greatly  fear, 
will  be  one  of  the  number." 

"  Our  friend  isn't  just  herself  to-night,"  remarked 
Mr.  Elliott  as  he  and  Dr.  Hillhouse  moved  across  the 
room.  "  A  little  dyspeptic,  maybe,  and  so  inclined 
to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  things.  She  has  little 
cause,  I  should  think,  to  be  anxious  for  her  own  son 
or  husband.  I  never  saw  Mr.  Whitford  the  worse 
for  wine ;  and  as  for  Ellis,  his  earnest  purpose  in  life, 
as  you  so  well  said  just  now,  will  hold  him  above 
the  reach  of  temptation." 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  has  cause  for  great  anxiety," 
returned  Dr.  Hillhouse. 

"  You  surprise  me.  What  reason  have  you  for 
saying  this  ?" 

"  A  professional  one — a  reason  grounded  in  path 
ology." 

"  Ah  ?"  and  Mr.  Elliott  looked  gravely  curious. 

"  The  young  man  inherits,  I  fear,  a  depraved  appe 
tite." 

"  Oh  no.  I  happen  to  be  too  well  acquainted 
with  his  father  to  accept  that  view  of  the  case." 

"  His  father  is  well  enough,"  replied  Dr.  Hill- 
house,  "  but  as  much  could  not  be  said  of  either  of 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         103 

his  grandfathers  while  living.  Both  drank  freely, 
and  one  of  them  died  a  confirmed  drunkard." 

*4  If  the  depraved  appetite  has  not  shown  itself  in 
the  children,  it  will  hardly  trouble  the  grandchil 
dren,"  said  Mr.  Elliott.  "  Your  fear  is  groundless, 
doctor.  If  Ellis  were  my  son,  I  should  feel  no  par 
ticular  anxiety  about  him." 

"  If  he  were  your  son,"  replied  Dr.  Hillhouse,  "  I 
am  not  so  sure  about  your  feeling  no  concern.  Our 
personal  interest  in  a  thing  is  apt  to  give  it  a  new 
importance.  But  you  are  mistaken  as  to  the  break 
ing  of  hereditary  influences  in  the  second  genera 
tion.  Often  hereditary  peculiarities  will  show  them 
selves  in  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  It  is  no 
uncommon  thing  to  see  the  grandmother's  red  hair 
reappear  in  her  granddaughter,  though  her  own 
child's  hair  was  as  black  as  a  raven's  wing.  A 
crooked  toe,  a  wart,  a  malformation,  an  epileptic 
tendency,  a  swart  or  fair  complexion,  may  disappear 
in  all  the  children  of  a  family,  and  show  itself  again 
in  the  grand-  or  great-grandchildren.  Mental  and 
moral  conditions  reappear  in  like  manner.  In  medi 
cal  literature  we  have  many  curious  illustrations  of 
this  law  of  hereditary  transmission  and  its  strange 
freaks  and  anomalies." 

"They  are  among  the  curiosities  of  your  litera 
ture,"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  speaking  as  though  not  in 
clined  to  give  much  weight  to  the  doctor's  views—- 
"  the  exceptional  and  abnormal  things  that  come 
under  professional  notice." 


104         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  The  law  of  hereditary  transmission,"  replied 
Dr.  Hillhouse,  "  is  as  certain  in  its  operation  as  the 
law  of  gravity.  You  may  disturb  or  impede  or 
temporarily  suspend  the  law,  but  the  moment  you  re 
move  the  impediment  the  normal  action  goes  on,  and 
the  result  is  sure.  Like  produces  like — that  is  the 
law.  Always  the  cause  is  seen  in  the  effect,  and  its 
character,  quality  and  good  or  evil  tendencies  are  sure 
to  have  a  rebirth  and  a  new  life.  It  is  under  the 
action  of  this  law  that  the  child  is  cursed  by  the 
parent  with  the  evil  and  sensual  things  he  has  made 
a  part  of  himself  through  long  indulgence." 

There  came  at  this  moment  a  raid  upon  Mr. 
Elliott  by  three  or  four  ladies,  members  of  his  con 
gregation,  who  surrounded  him  and  Dr.  Hillhouse, 
and  cut  short  their  conversation. 

Meanwhile,  Ellis  Whitford  had  already  half  for 
gotten  his  painful  interview  with  his  mother  in  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  Blanche  Birtwell,  to  whom  he 
had  recently  become  engaged.  She  was  a  pure  and 
lovely  young  woman,  inheriting  her  mother's  personal 
beauty  and  refined  tastes.  She  had  been  carefully 
educated  and  kept  by  her  mother  as  much  within 
the  sphere  of  home  as  possible  and  out  of  society 
of  the  hoydenish  girls  who,  moving  in  the  so-called 
best  circles,  have  the  free  and  easy  manners  of  the 
denizens  of  a  public  garden  rather  than  the  modest 
demeanor  of  unsullied  maidenhood.  She  was  a  sweet 
exception  to  the  loud,  womanish,  conventional  girl 
we  meet  everywhere — on  the  street,  in  places  of  pub- 


Wounded  in  tlie  House  of  a  Friend.        \  of 

lie  amusement  and  in  the  drawing-room — a  fragrant 
human  flower  with  the  bloom  of  gentle  girlhood  on 
every  unfolding  leaf. 

It  was  no  slender  tie  that  bound  these  lovers 
together.  They  had  moved  toward  each  other, 
drawn  by  an  inner  attraction  that  was  irresistible  to 
each ;  and  when  heart  touched  heart,  their  pulses 
took  a  common  beat.  The  life  of  each  had  become 
bound  up  in  the  other,  and  their  betrothal  was  no 
mere  outward  contract.  The  manly  intellect  and 
the  pure  heart  had  recognized  each  other,  tender 
love  had  lifted  itself  to  noble  thought,  and  thought 
had  grown  stronger  and  purer  as  it  felt  the  warmth 
and  life  of  a  new  and  almost  divine  inspiration. 
Ellis  Whitford  had  risen  to  a  higher  level  by  virtue 
of  this  betrothal. 

They  were  sitting  in  a  bay-window,  out  of  the 
crowd  of  guests,  when  a  movement  in  the  company 
was  observed  by  Whitford.  Knowing  what  it  meant, 
he  arose  and  offered  his  arm  to  Blanche.  As  he 
did  so  he  became  aware  of  a  change  in  his  compan 
ion,  felt  rather  than  seen ;  and  yet,  if  he  had  looked 
closely  into  her  face,  a  change  in  its  expression  would 
have  been  visible.  The  smile  was  still  upon  her 
beautiful  lips,  and  the  light  and  tenderness  still  in 
her  eyes,  but  from  both  something  had  departed. 
It  was  as  if  an  almost  invisible  film  of  vapor  had 
'  drifted  across  the  sun  of  their  lives. 

In   silence  they  moved  on  to  the  supper-room — 
moved  with  the  light  and  heavy-hearted,  for,  as  Dr. 


ro6         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Hillhoise  had  intimated,  there  were  some  there  to 
whom  that  supper-room  was  regarded  with  anxiety 
and  fear — wives  and  mothers  and  sisters  who  knew, 
alas !  too  well  that  deadly  serpents  lie  hidden  among 
the  flowers  of  every  banqueting-room. 

How  bright  and  joyous  a  scene  it  was  !  You  did 
not  see  the  trouble  that  lay  hidden  in  so  many 
hearts ;  the  light  and  glitter,  the  flash  and  brilliancy, 
were  too  strong. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  think  of  the  power  of 
spheres  ?  The  influence  that  goes  out  from  an 
individual  or  mass  of  individuals,  we  mean — that 
subtle,  invisible  power  that  acts  from  one  upon  an 
other,  and  which  when  aggregated  is  almost  irre 
sistible  ?  You  have  felt  it  in  a  company  moved  by 
a  single  impulse  which  carried  you  for  a  time  with 
the  rest,  though  all  your  calmer  convictions  were 
in  opposition  to  the  movement.  It  has  kept  you 
silent  by  its  oppressive  power  when  you  should  have 
spoken  out  in  a  ringing  protest,  and  it  has  borne 
you  away  on  its  swift  or  turbulent  current  when 
you  should  have  stood  still  and  been  true  to  right. 
Again,  in  the  company  of  good  and  true  men,  moved 
by  the  inspiration  of  some  noble  cause,  how  all 
your  weakness  and  hesitation  has  died  out !  and  you 
have  felt  the  influence  of  that  subtle  sphere  to  which 
we  refer. 

Everywhere  and  at  all  times  are  we  exposed  to 
the  action  of  these  mental  and  moral  spheres,  which 
act  upon  and  impress  us  in  thousands  of  different 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        107 

ways,  now  carrying  us  along  in  some  sudden  public 
excitement  in  which  passion  drowns  the  voice  of 
reason,  and  now  causing  us  to  drift  in  the  wake  of 
some  stronger  nature  than  our  own  whose  active 
thought  holds  ours  in  a  weak,  assenting  bondage. 

You  understand  what  we  mean.  Now  take  the 
pervading  sphere  of  an  occasion  like  the  one  we  are 
describing,  and  do  you  not  see  that  to  go  against  it 
is  possible  only  to  persons  of  decided  convictions 
and  strong  individuality  ?  The  common  mass  of 
men  and  women  are  absorbed  into  or  controlled  by 
its  subtle  power.  They  can  no  more  set  themselves 
against  it,  if  they  would,  than  against  the  rush  of  a 
swiftly-flowing  river.  To  the  young  it  is  irresistible. 

As  Ellis  Whitford,  with  Blanche  leaning  on  his 
arm,  gained  the  supper-room,  he  met  the  eyes  of  his 
mother,  who  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table, 
and  read  in  them  a  sign  of  warning.  Did  it  awaken 
a  sense  of  danger  and  put  him  on  his  guard  ?  No ; 
it  rather  stirred  a  feeling  of  anger.  Could  she  not 
trust  him  among  gentlemen  and  ladies — not  trust 
him  with  Blanche  Birtwell  by  his  side  ?  It  hurt  his 
pride  and  wounded  his  self-esteem. 

He  was  in  the  sphere  of  liberty  and  social  enjoy 
ment  and  among  those  who  did  not  believe  that 
wine  was  a  mocker,  but  something  to  make  glad  the 
heart  and  give  joy  to  the  countenance ;  and  when  it 
began  to  flow  he  was  among  the  first  to  taste  its 
delusive  sweets.  Blanche,  for  whom  he  poured  a 
glass  of  champagne,  took  it  from  his  hand,  but  with 


IO8         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

only  half  a  smile  on  her  lips,  which  was  veiled  b> 
something  so  like  pain  or  fear  that  Ellis  felt  as  if 
the  lights  about  him  had  suddenly  lost  a  portion  of 
their  brilliancy.  He  stood  holding  his  own  glass, 
after  just  tasting  its  contents,  waiting  for  Blanche  to 
raise  the  sparkling  liquor  to  her  lips,  but  she  seemed 
like  one  under  the  influence  of  a  spell,  not  moving 
or  responding. 


CHAPTER  X. 

7JLANCHE  still  held  the  untasted  wine  in  her 
.JD  hand,  when  her  father,  who  happened  to  be 
near,  filled  a  glass,  and  said  as  he  bowed  to  her : 

"  Your  good  health,  my  daughter ;  and  yours,  Mr. 
Whitford,"  bowing  to  her  companion  also. 

The  momentary  spell  was  broken.  Blanche  smiled 
back  upon  her  father  and  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips. 
The  lights  in  the  room  seemed  to  Ellis  to  flash  up 
again  and  blaze  with  a  higher  brilliancy.  Never  had 
the  taste  of  wine  seemed  more  delicious.  What  a 
warm  thrill  ran  along  his  nerves !  What  a  fine  ex 
hilaration  quickened  in  his  brain !  The  shadow 
which  a  moment  before  had  cast  a  veil  over  the  face 
of  Blanche  he  saw  no  longer.  It  had  vanished,  or 
his  vision  was  not  now  clear  enough  to  discern  its 
subtle  texture. 

"  Take  good  care  of  Blanche,"  said  Mr.  Birtwell, 
in  a  light  voice.  "  And  you,  pet,  see  that  Mr.  Whit- 
ford  enjoys  himself." 

Blanche  did  not  reply.  Her  father  turned  away. 
Eyes  not  veiled  as  Whitford's  now  were  would  have 
seen  that  the  filmy  cloud  which  had  come  over  her 
face  a  little  while  before  was  less  transparent,  and 
sensibly  dimmed  its  brightness. 

'  10  lov 


HO         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Scarcely  had  Mr.  Birtwell  left  them  when  Mr. 
Elliott,  who  had  only  a  little  while  before  heard  of 
their  engagement,  said  to  Blanche  in  an  undertone, 
and  with  one  of  his  sweet  paternal  smiles : 

14 1  must  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  you,  dear,  in 
commemoration  of  the  happy  event." 

Mr.  Elliott  had  not  meant  to  include  young  Whit- 
ford  in  the  invitation.  The  latter  had  spoken  to  a 
lady  acquaintance  who  stood  near  him,  and  was  say 
ing  a  few  words  to  her,  thus  disengaging  Blanche. 
But  observing  that  Mr.  Elliott  was  talking  to  Blanche, 
he  turned  from  the  lady  and  joined  her  again.  And 
so  Mr.  Elliott  had  to  say : 

*'  We  are  going  to  have  a  glass  of  wine  in  honor 
of  the  auspicious  event." 

Three  glasses  were  filled  by  the  clergyman,  and 
then  he  stood  face  to  face  with  the  young  man  and 
maiden,  and  each  of  them,  as  he  said  in  a  low,  pro 
fessional  voice,  meant  for  their  ears  alone,  "  Peace 
and  blessing,  my  children !"  drank  to  the  sentiment. 
Whitford  drained  his  glass,  but  Blanche  only  tasted 
the  wine  in  hers. 

Mr.  Elliott  stood  for  a  few  moments,  conscious 
that  something  was  out  of  accord.  Then  he  remem 
bered  his  conversation  with  Dr.  Hillhouse  a  little 
while  before,  and  felt  an  instant  regret.  He  had 
noted  the  manner  of  Whitford  as  he  drank,  and  the 
manner  of  Blanche  as  she  put  the  wine  to  her  lips. 
In  the  one  case  was  an  enjoyable  eagerness,  and  in 
the  other  constraint.  Something  in  the  expression 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         ill 

of  the  girl's  face  haunted  and  troubled  him  a  long 
time  afterward. 

"Our  young  friend  is  getting  rather  gay,"  said 
Dr.  Hillhouse  to  Mr.  Elliott,  half  an  hour  afterward. 
He  referred  to  Ellis  Whitford,  who  was  talking  and 
laughing  in  a  way  that  to  some  seemed  a  little  too 
loud  and  boisterous.  "  I'm  afraid  for  him,"  he  added. 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  remember  what  you  were  saying 
about  his  two  grandfathers,"  returned  the  clergyman. 
"  And  you  really  think  he  may  inherit  something 
from  them  ?" 

"  Don't  you  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  yes,  of  course.  But  I  mean  an  inordinate 
desire  for  drink,  a  craving  that  makes  indulgence 
perilous  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  just  what  I  do  believe." 

"  If  that  be  so,  the  case  is  a  serious  one.  In  taking 
wine  with  him  a  short  time  ago,  I  noticed  a  certain 
enjoyable  eagerness  as  he  held  the  glass  to  his  lips 
not  often  observed  in  our  young  men." 

"  You  drank  with  him  ?"  queried  the  doctor. 

"  Yes.  He  and  Blanche  Birtwell  have  recently 
become  engaged,  and  I  took  some  wine  with  them 
in  compliment." 

The  doctor,  instead  of  replying,  became  silent  and 
thoughtful,  and  Mr.  Elliott  moved  away  among  the 
crowd  of  guests. 

"  I  am  really  sorry  for  Mrs.  Whitford,"  said  a  lady 
with  whom  he  soon  became  engaged  in  conversation 

"  Why  so  ?"  asked  the  clergyman,  betraying  sur 


TI2          Won mt cd  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

prise.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  No  family  trouble,  I 
hope  ?" 

'  Very  serious  trouble  I  should  call  it  were  it 
my  own,"  returned  the  lady. 

"  I  am  pained  to  hear  you  speak  so.  What  has 
occurred  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  noticed  her  son  to-night?  There! 
That  was  his  laugh.  He's  been  drinking  too  much. 
I  saw  his  mother  looking  at  him  a  little  while  ago 
with  eyes  so  full  of  sorrow  and  suffering  that  it 
made  my  heart  ache." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it's  nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Elliott. 
"  Young  men  will  become  a  little  gay  on  these  occa 
sions  ;  we  must  expect  that.  All  of  them  don't  bear 
wine  alike.  It's  mortifying  to  Mrs.  Whitford,  of 
course,  but  she's  a  stately  woman,  you  know,  and 
sensitive  about  proprieties." 

Mr.  Elliott  did  not  wait  for  the  lady's  answer,  but 
turned  to  address  another  person  who  came  forward 
at  the  moment  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Sensitive  about  proprieties,"  said  the  lady  to  her 
self,  with  some  feeling,  as  she  stood  looking  down 
the  room  to  where  Ellis  Whitford  in'  a  group  of 
young  men  and  women  was  giving  vent  to  his  exu 
berant  spirits  more  noisily  than  befitted  the  place 
and  occasion.  "  Mr.  Elliott  calls  things  by  dainty 
names." 

"  I  call  that  disgraceful,"  remarked  an  elderly 
lady,  in  a  severe  tone,  as  if  replying  to  the  other's 
thought. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        1 1 3 

"  Young  men  will  become  a  little  gay  on  these 
occasions,"  said  the  person  to  whom  she  had  spoken, 
with  some  irony  in  her  tone.  "  So  Mr.  Elliott 
says." 

"  Mr.  Elliott !"  There  was  a  tone  of  bitterness 
and  rejection  in  the  speaker's  voice.  "  Mr.  Elliott 
had  better  give  our  young  men  a  safer  example  than 
he  does.  A  little  gay !  A  little  drunk  would  be 
nearer  the  truth." 

"  Oh  dear !  such  a  vulgar  word  !  We  don't  use  it 
in  good  society,  you  know.  It  belongs  to  taverns 
and  drinking-saloons — to  coarse,  common  people. 
You  must  say  'a  little  excited/  'a  little  gay,'  but 
not  drunk.  That's  dreadful !" 

"  Drunk !"  said  the  other,  with  emphasis,  but 
speaking  low  and  for  the  ear  only  of  the  lady  with 
whom 'she  was  talking.  "We  understand  a  great 
deal  better  the  quality  of  a  thing  when  we  call  it  by 
its  right  name.  If  a  young  man  drinks  wine  or 
brandy  until  he  becomes  intoxicated,  as  Whitford 
has  done  to-night,  and  we  say  he  is  drunk  instead  of 
exhilarated  or  a  little  gay,  we  do  something  toward 
making  his  conduct  odious.  We  do  not  excuse,  but 
condemn.  We  make  it  disgraceful  instead  of  palli 
ating  the  offence." 

The  lady  paused,  when  her  companion  said : 

"  Look !  Blanche  Birtwell  is  trying  to  quiet  him. 
Did  you  know  they  were  engaged?" 

"What!" 

"  Engaged.'' 

10*  a 


114          Wounded  in  tlie  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Then  I  pity  her  from  my  heart.  A  young  man 
who  hasn't  self-control  enough  to  keep  himself  sobei 
at  an  evening  party  can't  be  called  a  very  promising 
subject  for  a  husband." 

"  She  has  placed  her  arm  in  his  and  is  looking  up 
into  his  face  so  sweetly.  What  a  lovely  girl  she  is ! 
There !  he's  quieter  already ;  and  see,  she  is  drawing 
him  out  of  the  group  of  young  men  and  talking  to 
him  in  such  a  bright,  animated  way." 

"  Poor  child !  it  makes  my  eyes  wet ;  and  this  is 
her  first  humiliating  and  painful  duty  toward  hei 
future  husband.  God  pity  and  strengthen  her  is 
my  heartfelt  prayer.  She  will  have  need,  I  fear,  of 
more  than  human  help  and  comfort." 

"  You  take  the  worst  for  granted  ?" 

The  lady  drew  a  deep  sigh : 

"  I  fear  the  worst,  and  know  something  of  what 
the  worst  means.  There  are  few  families  of  any 
note  in  our  city,"  she  added,  after  a  slight  pause, 
"  in  which  sorrow  has  not  entered  through  the  door 
of  intemperance.  Ah !  is  not  the  name  of  the  evil 
that  comes  in  through  this  door  Legion?  and  we 
throw  it  wide  open  and  invite  both  young  and  old 
to  enter.  We  draw  them  by  various  allurements 
We  make  the  way  of  this  door  broad  and  smooth 
and  flowery,  full  of  pleasantness  and  enticement. 
We  hold  out  our  hands,  we  smile  with  encourage 
ment,  we  step  inside  of  the  door  to  show  them  the 
way." 

In  her  ardor  the  lady  half  forgot   herself,  and 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        115 

stopped  suddenly  as  she  observed  that  two  or  three 
of  the  company  who  stood  near  had  been  listening. 

Meantime,  Blanche  Birtwell  had  managed  to  get 
VVhitford  away  from  the  table,  and  was  trying  to 
induce  him  to  leave  the  supper-room.  She  hung  on 
,  his  arm  and  talked  to  him  in  a  light,  gay  manner, 
as  though  wholly  unconscious  of  his  condition. 
They  had  reached  the  door  leading  into  the  hall, 
when  VVhitford  stopped,  and  drawing  back,  said : 

"  Oh,  there's  Fred  Lovering,  my  old  college  friend. 
I  didn't  know  he  was  in  the  city."  Then  he  called 
out,  in  a  voice  so  loud  as  to  cause  many  to  turn  and 
look  at  him,  "  Fred  !  Fred  !  Why,  how  are  you,  old 
boy  ?  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

The  young  man  thus  spoken  to  made  his  way 
through  the  crowd  of  guests,  who  were  closely 
packed  together  in  that  part  of  the  room,  some 
going  in  and  some  trying  to  get  out,  and  grasping 
the  hand  of  Whitford,  shook  it  with  great  cordiality. 

"  Miss  Birtwell,"  said  the  latter,  introducing 
Blanche.  "  But  you  know  each  other,  I  see." 

"  Oh  yes,  we  are  old  friends.  Glad  to  see  you 
looking  so  well,  Miss  Birtwell." 

Blanche  bowed  with  cold  politeness,  drawing  a 
little  back  as  she  did  so,  and  tightening  her  hold  on 
Whitford's  arm. 

Lovering  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  young  lady  with 
an  admiring  glance,  gazing  into  her  face  so  intently 
that  her  color  heightened.  She  turned  partly  away, 
an  expression  of  annoyance  on  her  countenance, 


Ii6         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

drawing  more  firmly  on  the  arm  of  her  companion 
as  she  did  so,  and  taking  a  step  toward  the  door. 
But  Whitford  was  no  longer  passive  to  her  will. 

Any  one  reading  the  face  of  Lovering  would  have 
seen  a  change  in  its  expression,  the  evidence  of 
some  quickly  formed  purpose,  and  he  would  have 
seen  also  something  more  than  simple  admiration 
of  the  beautiful  girl  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  friend. 
His  manner  toward  Whitford  became  more  hearty. 

"  My  dear  old  friend,"  he  said,  catching  up  the 
hand  he  had  dropped  and  giving  it  a  tighter  grip 
than  before,  "  this  is  a  pleasure.  How  it  brings 
back  our  college  days !  We  must  have  a  glass  of 
wine  in  memory  of  the  good  old  times.  Come  !" 

And  he  moved  toward  the  table.  With  an  im 
pulse  she  could  not  restrain,  Blanche  drew  back 
toward  the  door,  pulling  strongly  on  Whitford's 
arm  : 

"Come,  Ellis;  I  am  faint  with  the  heat  of  this 
room.  Take  me  out,  please." 

Whitford  looked  into  her  face,  and  saw  that  it 
had  grown  suddenly  pale.  If  his  perceptions  had 
not  been  obscured  by  drink,  he  would  have  taken 
her  out  instantly.  But  his  mind  was  not  clear. 

"Just  a  moment,  until  I  can  get  you  a  glass  of 
wine,"  he  said,  turning  hastily  from  her.  Lovering  was 
filling  three  glasses  as  he  reached  the  table.  Seiz 
ing  one  of  them,  he  went  back  quickly  to  Blanche ; 
but  she  waved  her  hand,  saying:  "  No,  no,  Ellis;  it 
Isn't  wine  that  I  need,  only  cooler  air." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         117 

"  Don't  be  foolish,"  replied  Whitford,  with  visible 
impatience.  "  Take  a  few  sips  of  wine,  and  you 
will  feel  better." 

Levering,  with  a  glass  in  each  hand,  now  joined 
them.  He  saw  the  change  in  Blanche's  face,  and 
having  already  observed  the  exhilarated  condition 
of  Whitford,  understood  its  meaning.  Handing  the 
latter  one  of  the  glasses,  he  said : 

"  Here's  to  your  good  health,  Miss  Birtwell,  and 
to  yours,  Ellis,"  drinking  as  he  spoke.  Whitford 
drained  his  glass,  but  Blanche  did  not  so  much  as 
wet  her  lips.  Her  face  had  grown  paler. 

"  If  you  do  not  take  me  out,  I  must  go  alone," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  that  made  itself  felt.  There  was 
in  it  a  quiver  of  pain  and  a  pulse  of  indignation. 

Lovering  lost  nothing  of  this.  As  his  college 
friend  made  his  way  from  the  room  with  Blanche  on 
his  arm,  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  an  attitude  of 
deep  thought,  then  nodded  two  or  three  times  and 
said  to  himself: 

"  That's  how  the  land  lies.  Wine  in  and  wit  out, 
and  Blanche  troubled  about  it  already.  Engaged, 
they  say.  All  right.  But  glass  is  sharp,  and  love's 
fetters  are  made  of  silk.  Will  the  edge  be  duller  if 
the  glass  is  filled  with  wine  ?  I  trow  not." 

And  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  lit  up  the  young  man's 
face. 

With  an  effort  strong  and  self-controlling  for  one 
so  young,  Blanche  Birtwell  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
troubled  heart  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  the  supper- 


1 1 8          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

room,  and  tried  to  still  its  agitation.  The  color 
came  back  to  her  cheeks  and  some  of  the  lost  bright 
ness  to  her  eyes,  but  she  was  not  long  in  discover 
ing  that  the  glass  of  wine  taken  with  his  college 
friend  had  proved  too  much  for  the  already  confused 
brain  of  her  lover,  who  began  talking  foolishly  and 
acting  in  a  way  that  mortified  and  pained  her  ex 
ceedingly.  She  now  sought  to  get  him  into  the 
library  and  out  of  common  observation.  Her  father 
had  just  received  from  France  and  England  some 
rare  books  filled  with  art  illustrations,  and  she  in 
vited  him  to  their  examination.  But  he  was  feeling 
too  social  for  that. 

"Why,  no,  pet."  He  made  answer  with  a  fond  famil 
iarity  he  would  scarcely  have  used  if  they  had  been 
alone  instead  of  in  a  crowded  drawing-room,  touch 
ing  her  cheek  playfully  with  his  fingers  as  he  spoke. 
"  Not  now.  We'll  reserve  that  pleasure  for  another 
time.  This  is  good  enough  for  me ;"  and  he  swung 
his  arms  around  and  gave  a  little  whoop  like  an 
excited  rowdy. 

A  deep  crimson  dyed  for  a  moment  the  face  of 
Blanche.  In  a  moment  afterward  it  was  pale  as 
ashes.  Whitford  saw  the  death-like  change,  and  it 
partially  roused  him  to  a  sense  of  his  condition. 

"  Of  course  I'll  go  to  the  library  if  your  heart's 
set  on  it,"  he  said,  drawing  her  arm  in  his  and 
taking  her  out  of  the  room  with  a  kind  of  flourish. 
Many  eyes  turned  on  them.  In  some  was  surprise, 
«n  some  merriment  and  in  some  sorrow  and  pain 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         119 

"  Now  for  the  books,"  he  cried  as  he  placed 
Blanche  in  a  large  chair  at  the  library-table.  "  Where 
are  they  ?" 

Self-control  has  a  masterful  energy  when  the  de 
mand  for  its  exercise  is  imperative.  The  paleness 
went  out  of  Blanche's  face,  and  a  tender  light  came 
into  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  Whitford  and 
smiled  on  him  with  loving  glances. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said,  in  a  firm,  low,  gentle  voice. 

The  young  man  felt  the  force  of  her  will  and  sat 
down  by  her  side,  close  to  the  table,  on  which  a 
number  of  books  were  lying. 

"  I  want  to  show  you  Dore's  illustrations  of  Don 
Quixote ;"  and  Blanche  opened  a  large  folio  volume. 

Whitford  had  grown  more  passive.  He  was  having 
a  confused  impression  that  all  was  not  just  right 
with  him,  and  that  it  was  better  to  be  in  the  library 
looking  over  books  and  pictures  with  Blanche  than 
in  the  crowded  parlors,  where  there  was  so  much  to 
excite  his  gayer  feelings.  So  he  gave  himself  up 
to  the  will  of  his  betrothed,  and  tried  to  feel  an 
interest  in  the  pictures  she  seemed  to  admire  so 
much. 

They  had  been  so  engaged  for  over  twenty  min 
utes,  Whitford  beginning  to  grow  dull  and  heavy  as 
the  exhilaration  of  wine  died  out,  and  less  respon 
sive  to  the  efforts  made  by  Blanche  to  keep  him 
interested,  when  Levering  came  into  the  library,  and 
seeing  them,  said,  with  a  spur  of  banter  in  his  voice : 

"Come,  come,  this  will  never  do!     You're  a  fine 


1 20         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

fellow,  Whitford,  and  I  don't  wonder  that  Miss  Birt- 
well  tolerates  you,  but  monopoly  is  not  the  word 
to-night.  I  claim  the  privilege  of  a  guest  and  a 
word  or  two  with  our  fair  hostess." 

And  he  held  out  his  arm  to  Blanche,  who  had 
lisen  from  the  table.  She  could  do  no  less  than 
take  it.  He  drew  her  from  the  room.  As  they 
passed  out  of  the  door  Blanche  cast  a  look  back  at 
Whitford.  Those  who  saw  it  were  struck  by  its 
deep  concern. 

"  Confound  his  impudence  !"  ejaculated  Ellis  Whit 
ford  as  he  saw  Blanche  vanish  through  the  library 
door.  Rising  from  the  table  he  stood  with  an  irres 
olute  air,  then  went  slowly  from  the  apartment  and 
mingled  with  the  company,  moving  about  in  an  aim 
less  kind  of  way,  until  he  drifted  again  into  the  supper- 
room,  the  tables  of  which  the  waiters  were  constantly 
replenishing,  and  toward  which  a  stream  of  guests 
still  flowed.  The  company  here  was  noisier  now  than 
when  he  left  it  a  short  time  before.  Revelry  had 
taken  the  place  of  staid  propriety.  Glasses  clinked 
like  a  chime  of  bells,  voices  ran  up  into  the  higher 
keys,  and  the  loud  musical  laugh  of  girls  mingled 
gaily  with  the  deeper  tones  of  their  male  compan 
ions.  Young  maidens  with  glasses  of  sparkling 
champagne  or  rich  brown  and  amber  sherry  in  their 
hands  were  calling  young  men  and  boys  to  drink 
with  them,  and  showing  a  freedom  and  abandon  of 
manner  that  marked  the  degree  of  their  exhilara 
tion.  Wine  does  not  act  in  one  way  on  the  brain 


Wounded  in  ike  House  of  a  Friend.         1 2  \ 

of  a  young  man  and  in  another  way  on  the  brain  of 
a  young  woman.  Girls  of  eighteen  or  twenty  will 
become  as  wild  and  free  and  forgetful  of  propriety 
as  young  men  of  the  same  age  if  you  bring  them 
together  at  a  feast  and  give  them  wine  freely. 

We  do  not  exaggerate  the  scene  in  Mr.  Birtwell's 
supper-room,  but  rather  subdue  the  picture.  As 
Whitford  drew  nigh  the  supper-room  the  sounds  of 
boisterous  mirth  struck  on  his  ears  and  stirred  him 
like  the  rattle  of  a  drum.  The  heaviness  went  out  of 
his  limbs,  his  pulse  beat  more  quickly,  he  felt  a  new 
life  in  his  veins.  As  he  passed  in  his  name  was  called 
in  a  gay  voice  that  he  did  not  at  first  recognize,  and 
at  the  same  moment  a  handsome  young  girl  with 
flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes  came  hastily  toward 
him,  and  drawing  her  hand  in  his  arm,  said,  in  a  loud 
familiar  tone : 

"  You  shall  be  my  knight,  Sir  Ellis." 

And  she  almost  dragged  him  down  the  room  to 
where  half  a  dozen  girls  and  young  men  were  hav 
ing  a  wordy  contest  about  something.  He  was  in 
the  midst  of  the  group  before  he  really  understood 
who  the  young  lady  was  that  had  laid  such  violent 
hands  upon  him.  He  then  recognized  her  as  the 
daughter  of  a  well-known  merchant.  He  had  met 
her  a  few  times  in  company,  and  her  bearing  toward 
him  had  always  before  been  marked  by  a  lady-like 
dignity  and  reserve.  Now  she  was  altogether  an 
other  being,  loud,  free  and  familiar  almost  to  rude 
ness. 

11 


r22          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  You  must  have  some  wine,  Sir  Knight,  to  give 
you  mettle  for  the  conflict,"  she  said,  running  to  the 
cable  and  filling  a  glass,  which  she  handed  to  him 
with  the  air  of  a  Hebe. 

Whitford  did  not  hesitate,  but  raised  the  glass  to 
his  lips  and  emptied  it  at  a  single  draught. 

"  Now  for  knight  or  dragon,  my  lady  fair.  I  am 
yours  to  do  or  die,"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  up  his 
handsome  form  with  a  mock  dignity,  at  which  a 
loud  cheer  broke  out  from  the  group  of  girls  and 
young  men  that  was  far  more  befitting  a  tavern- 
saloon  than  a  gentleman's  dining-room. 

Louder  and  noisier  this  little  group  became,  Whit- 
ford,  under  a  fresh  supply-  of  wine,  leading  in  the 
boisterous  mirth.  One  after  another,  attracted  by 
the  gayety  and  laughter,  joined  the  group,  until  .it 
numbered  fifteen  or  twenty  half-intoxicated  young 
men  and  women,  who  lost  themselves  in  a  kind  of 
wild  saturnalia. 

It  was  past  twelve  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Whitford 
entered  the  dining-room,  where  the  noise  and  laugh 
ter  were  almost  deafening.  Her  face  was  pale,  her 
lips  closely  compressed  and  her  forehead  contracted 
with  pain.  She  stood  looking  anxiously  through 
the  room  until  she  saw  her  son  leaning  against  the 
wall,  with  a  young  lady  standing  in  front  of  him 
holding  a  glass  in  her  hand  which  she  was  trying  to 
induce  him  to  take.  One  glance  at  the  face  of 
Ellis  told  her  too  plainly  his  sad  condition. 

To  go  to  him  and  endeavor  to  get  him  away  Mrs, 


Wounded  in  the  Houst  of  a  Friend.         123 

Whitford  feared  might  arouse  his  latent  pride  and 
make  him  stubborn  to  her  wishes. 

"  You  see  that  young  man  standing  against  the 
wall  ?"  she  said  to  one  of  the  waiters. 

"  Mr.  Whitford  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  waiter. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  Go  to  him  quietly,  and  say 
that  his  mother  is  going  home  and  wants  him.  Speak 
low,  if  you  please." 

Mrs.  Whitford  stood  with  a  throbbing  heart  as  the 
waiter  passed  down  the  room.  The  tempter  was 
before  her  son  offering  the  glass  of  wine,  which  he 
yet  refused.  She  saw  him  start  and  look  discon 
certed  as  the  waiter  spoke  to  him,  then  wave  the 
glass  of  wine  aside.  But  he  did  not  stir  from  him 
place. 

The  waiter  came  back  to  Mrs.  Whitford  : 

"  He  says  don't  wait  for  him,  ma'am." 

The  poor  mother  felt  an  icy  coldness  run  along 
her  nerves.  For  some  moments  she  stood  irreso 
lute,  and  then  went  back  to  the  parlor.  She  re 
mained  there  for  a  short  time,  masking  her  counte 
nance  as  best  she  could,  and  then  returned  to  the 
dining-room,  where  noise  and  merriment  still  pre 
vailed.  She  did  not  at  first  see  her  son,  though  her 
eyes  went  quickly  from  face  to  face  and  from  form 
to  form.  She  was  about  retiring,  under  the  impression 
that  he  was  not  there,  when  the  waiter  to  whom  she 
had  spoken  before  said  to  her : 

"Are  you  looking  for  Mr.  Whitford?" 


124        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Ft  lend. 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  that  made  hei 
heart  stand  still. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied. 

"You  will  find  him  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room, 
just  in  the  corner,"  said  the  man. 

Mrs.  Whitford  made  her  way  to  the  lower  end  of 
the  room.  Ellis  was  sitting  in  a  chair,  stupid  and 
maudlin,  and  two  or  three  thoughtless  girls  were 
around  his  chair  laughing  at  his  drunken  efforts  to 
be  witty.  The  shocked  mother  did  not  speak  to 
him,  but  shrunk  away  and  went  gliding  from  the 
room.  At  the  door  she  said  to  the  waiter  who  had 
followed  her  out,  drawn  by  a  look  she  gave  him : 

"  I  will  be  ready  to  go  in  five  minutes,  and  I  want 
Mr.  Whitford  to  go  with  me.  Get  him  down  to  the 
door  as  quietly  as  you  can." 

The  waiter  went  back  into  the  supper-room,  and 
with  a  tact  that  came  from  experience  in  cases  similar 
to  this  managed  to  get  the  young  man  away  without 
arousing  his  opposition. 

Five  minutes  afterward,  as  Mrs.  Whitford  sat  in 
her  carriage  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Birtwell's  palace 
home,  her  son  was  pushed  in,  half  resisting,  by  two 
waiters,  so  drunk  that  his  wretched  mother  had  to 
support  him  with  her  arm  all  the  way  home.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  in  her  aching  heart  the  mother 
cried  out,  "Oh,  that  he  had  died  a  baby  on  my 
breast " ? 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AMONG  the  guests  at  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell's 
was  an  officer  holding  a  high  rank  in  the  army, 
named  Abercrombie.  He  had  married,  many  years 
before,  a  lady  of  fine  accomplishments  and  rare  cul 
ture  who  was  connected  with  one  of  the  oldest 
families  in  New  York.  Her  grandfather  on  hei 
mother's  side  hud  distinguished  himself  as  an  officer 
in  the  Revolutionary  war ;  and  on  her  father's  side 
she  could  count  statesmen  and  lawyers  whose  names 
were  prominent  in  the  early  history  of  our  country. 

General  Abercrombie  while  a  young  man  had 
fallen  into  the  vice  of  the  army,  and  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  drinking. 

The  effects  of  alcohol  are  various.  On  some  they 
are  seen  in  the  bloated  flesh  and  reddened  eyes. 
Others  grow  pale,  and  their  skin  takes  on  a  dead 
and  ashen  hue.  With  some  the  whole  nervous  sys 
tem  becomes  shattered;  while  with  others  organic 
derangements,  gout,  rheumatism  and  kindred  evils 
attend  the  assimilation  of  this  poison. 

Quite  as  varied  are  the  moral  and  mental  effects 
of  alcoholic  disturbance.  Some  are  mild  and  weak 
inebriates,  growing  passive  or  stupid  in  -their  cups. 
Others  become  excited,  talkative  and  intrusive ; 

11  *  126 


126         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Frit  nd. 

others  good-natured  and  merry;  not  a  few  coarse, 
arbitrary,  brutal  and  unfeeling ;  and  some  jealous, 
savage  and  fiend-like. 

Of  the  last-named  class  was  General  Abercrornbie. 
When  sober,  a  kinder,  gentler  or  more  considerate 
man  toward  his  wife  could  hardly  be  found;  but 
when  intoxicated,  he  was  half  a  fiend,  and  seemed  to 
take  a  devilish  delight  in  tormenting  her.  It  had 
been  no  uncommon  thing  for  him  to  point  a  loaded 
pistol  at  her  heart,  and  threaten  to  shoot  her  dead 
if  she  moved  or  cried  out ;  to  hold  a  razor  at  his 
own  throat,  or  place  the  keen  edge  close  to  hers; 
to  open  a  window  at  midnight  and  threaten  to  fling 
himself  to  the  ground,  or  to  drag  her  across  the 
floor,  swearing  that  they  should  take  the  leap  to 
gether. 

For  years  the  wretched  wife  had  borne  all  this, 
and  worse  if  possible,  hiding  her  dreadful  secret  as 
best  she  could,  and  doing  all  in  her  power  to  hold 
her  husband,  for  whom  she  retained  a  strong  attach 
ment,  away  from  temptation.  Friends  who  only 
half  suspected  the  truth  wondered  that  Time  was  so 
aggressive,  taking  the  flash  and  merriment  out  of 
her  beautiful  eyes,  the  color  and  fullness  from  her 
cheeks,  the  smiles  from  her  lips  and  the  glossy 
blackness  from  her  hair. 

"  Mrs.  Abercrombie  is  such  a  wreck,"  one  would 
say  on  meeting  her  after  a  few  years.  "  I  would 
hardly  have  known  her ;  and  she  doesn't  look  at  all 
happy." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        127 

"I  wonder  if  the  general  drinks  as  hard  as  ever?" 
would  in  all  probability  be  replied  to  this  remark, 
followed  by  the  response  : 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  he  was  a  hard  drinker, 
He  doesn't  look  like  it." 

"  No,  you  would  not  suspect  so  much ;  but  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  he  has  very  little  control  over  his 
appetite." 

At  which  a  stronger  surprise  would  be  expressed. 

General  Abercrombie  was  fifty  years  old,  a  large, 
handsome  and  agreeable  man,  and  a  favorite  with 
his  brother  officers,  who  deeply  regretted  his  weak 
ness.  As  an  officer  his  drinking  habits  rarely  in 
terfered  with  his  duty.  Somehow  the  discipline  of 
the  army  had  gained  such  a  power  over  him  as  to 
hold  him  repressed  and  subordinate  to  its  influ 
ence.  It  was  only  when  official  restraints  were  off 
that  the  devil  had  power  to  enter  in  and  fully  possess 
him. 

A  year  before  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing 
General  Abercrombie  had  been  ordered  to  duty  in 
the  north-eastern  department.  His  headquarters 
were  in  the  city  where  the  characters  we  have  intro 
duced  resided.  Official  standing  gave  him  access  to 
some  of  the  wealthiest  and  best  circles  in  the  city, 
and  his  accomplished  wife  soon  became  a  favorite 
with  all  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  come  into 
close  relations  with  her.  Among  these  was  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  the  two  ladies  drawing  toward  each  other 
with  the  magnetism  of  kindred  spirits. 


128          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

A  short  time  before  coming  to  the  city  General 
Abercrombie,  after  having  in  a  fit  of  drunken  insan 
ity  come  near  killing  his  wife,  wholly  abandoned  the 
use  of  intoxicants  of  every  kind.  He  saw  in  this 
his  only  hope.  His  efforts  to  drink  guardedly  and 
temperately  had  been  fruitless.  The  guard  was  off 
the  moment  a  single  glass  of  liquor  passed  his  lips, 
and  he  came  under  the  influence  of  an  aroused  appe 
tite  against  which  resolution  set  itself  feebly  and  in 
vain. 

Up  to  the  evening  of  this  party  at  Mr.  Birtwell's 
General  Abercrombie  had  kept  himself  free  from 
•wine,  and  people  who  knew  nothing  of  his  history 
wondered  at  his  abstemiousness.  When  invited  to 
drink,  he  declined  in  a  way  that  left  no  room  for  the 
invitation  to  be  repeated.  He  never  went  to  pri 
vate  entertainments  except  in  company  with  his  wife, 
and  then  he  rarely  took  any  other  lady  to  the  sup 
per-room. 

The  new  hope  born  in  the  sad  heart  of  Mrs.  Aber 
crombie  had  grown  stronger  as  the  weeks  and  months 
went  by.  Never  for  so  long  a  time  had  the  general 
stood  firm.  It  looked  as  if  he  had  indeed  gained 
the  mastery  over  an  appetite  which  at  one  time 
seemed  wholly  to  have  enslaved  him. 

With  a  lighter  heart  than  usual  on  such  occasions, 
Mrs.  Abercrombie  made  ready  for  the  grand  enter 
tainment,  paying  more  than  ordinary  attention  to 
her  toilette.  Something  of  her  old  social  and  per 
sonal  pride  came  back  into  life,  giving  her  face  and 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         129 

bearing  the  dignity  and  prestige  worn  in  happier 
days.  As  she  entered  the  drawing-room  at  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Birtwell's,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  a  rip 
ple  of  admiration  was  seen  on  many  faces,  and  the 
question,  "  Who  is  she  ?"  was  heard  on  many  lips. 
Mrs.  Abercrombie  was  a  centre  of  attraction  that 
evening,  and  no  husband  could  have  been  prouder 
of  such  a  distinction  for  his  wife  than  was  the  gene 
ral.  He,  too,  found  himself  an  object  of  interest  and 
attention.  Mr.  Birtwell  was  a  man  who  made  the 
most  of  his  guests,  and  being  a  genuine  parvenu, 
did  not  fail  through  any  refinement  of  good  breed 
ing  in  advertising  to  each  other  the  merits  or  achieve 
ments  of  those  he  favored  with  introductions.  If  he 
presented  a  man  of  letters  to  an  eminent  banker,  he 
informed  each  in  a  word  or  two  of  the  other's  distin 
guished  merits.  An  officer  would  be  complimented 
on  his  rank  or  public  service,  a  scientist  on  his  last 
book  or  essay,  a  leading  politician  on  his  statesman 
ship.  At  Mr.  Birtwell's  you  always  found  yourself 
among  men  with  more  in  them  than  you  had  sus 
pected,  and  felt  half  ashamed  of  your  ignorance  in 
regard  to  their  great  achievements. 

General  Abercrombie,  like  many  others  that  even 
ing,  felt  unusually  well  satisfied  with  himself.  Mr. 
Birtwell  complimented  him  whenever  they  happened 
to  meet,  sometimes  on  his  public  services  and  some 
times  on  the  "sensation  "  that  elegant  woman  .Mrs. 
Abercrombie  was  making.  He  grew  in  his  own 
estimation  under  the  flattering  attentions  of  his  host, 

I 


1 30        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

and  felt  a  manlier  pride  swelling  in  his  heart  than 
he  had  for  some  time  known.  His  bearing  became 
more  self-poised,  his  innate  sense  of  strength  more 
apparent.  He  was  a  man  among  men. 

This  was  the  general's  state  of  mind  when,  after 
an  hour  or  two  of  social  intercourse,  he  entered  the 
large  supper-room,  whither  he  escorted  a  lady.  He 
had  not  seen  his  wife  for  half  an  hour.  If  she  had 
been,  as  usual  on  such  occasions,  by  his  side,  he 
would  have  been  on  guard.  But  the  lady  who 
leaned  on  his  arm  was  not  his  good  angel.  She  was 
a  gay,  fashionable  woman,  and  as  fond  of  good  eat 
ing  and  drinking  as  any  male  epicure  there.  The 
general  was  polite  and  attentive,  and  as  prompt  as 
any  younger  gallant  in  the  work  of  supplying  his 
fair  companion  with  the  good  things  she  was  so 
ready  to  appropriate. 

"  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  champagne  ?" 

Of  course  she  would.  Her  eyebrows  arched  a 
little  in  surprise  at  the  question.  The  general  filled 
a  glass  and  placed  it  in  her  hand.  Did  she  raise  it 
to  her  lips  ?  No ;  she  held  it  a  little  extended,  look 
ing  at  him  with  an  expression  which  said,  "  I  will 
wait  for  you." 

For  an  instant  General  Abercrombie  felt  as  if  he 
were  sinking  through  space.  Darkness  and  fear 
were  upon  him.  But  there  was  no  time  for  inde 
cision.  The  lady  stood  holding  her  glass  and  look 
ing  at  him  fixedly.  An  instant  and  the  struggle  was 
over.  He  turned  to  the  table  and  filled  another 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         131 

glass.  A  smile  and  a  bow,  and  then  a  draught  that 
sent  the  blood  leaping  along  his  veins  with  a  hot 
and  startled  impulse. 

Mrs.  Abercrombie,  who  had  entered  the  room  a 
little  while  before,  and  was  some  distance  from  the 
place  where  her  husband  stood,  felt  at  the  moment 
a  sudden  chill  and  weight  fall  upon  her  heart.  A 
gentleman  who  was  talking  to  her  saw  her  face  grow 
pale  and  a  look  that  seemed  like  terror  come  into 
her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  ill,  Mrs.  Abercrombie  ?"  he  asked,  in 
some  alarm. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  Only  a  slight  feeling  of 
faintness.  It  is  gone  now;"  and  she  tried  to  recover 
herself. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  from  the  room  ?"  asked  the 
gentleman,  seeing  that  the  color  did  not  come  back 
to  her  face. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you." 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  glass  of  wine." 

But  she  waved  her  hand  with  a  quick  motion, 
saying,  "  Not  wine;  but  a  little  ice  water." 

She  drank,  but  the  water  did  not  take  the  white 
ness  from  her  lips  nor  restore  the  color  to  her 
cheeks.  The  look  of  dread  or  fear  kept  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  companion  saw  her  glance  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  furtive  way  as  if  in  anxious  search  for 
some  one 

In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Abercrombie  was  able  to 
lise  in  some  small  degree  above  the  strange  impres- 


132         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

sion  which  had  fallen  upon  her  like  the  shadow  oi 
some  passing  evil ;  but  the  rarely  flavored  dishes, 
the  choice  fruits,  confections  and  ices  with  which  she 
was  supplied  scarcely  passed  her  lips.  She  only 
pretended  to  eat.  Her  ease  of  manner  and  fine 
freedom  of  conversation  were  gone,  and  the  gentle 
man  who  had  been  fascinated  by  her  wit,  intelligence 
and  frank  womanly  bearing  now  felt  an  almost  re- 
pellant  coldness. 

"  You  cannot  feel  well,  Mrs.  Abercrombie,"  he 
said.  "  The  air  is  close  and  hot.  Let  me  take  you 
back  to  the  parlors." 

She  did  not  reply,  nor  indeed  seem  to  hear  him. 
Her  eyes  had  become  suddenly  arrested  by  some 
object  a  little  way  off,  and  were  fixed  upon  it  in  a 
frightened  stare.  The  gentleman  turned  and  saw 
only  her  husband  in  lively  conversation  with  a  lady. 
He  had  a  glass  of  wine  in  his  hand,  and  was  just 
raising  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Jealous !"  was  the  thought  that  flashed  through 
his  mind.  The  position  was  embarrassing.  What 
could  he  say?  In  the  next  moment  intervening 
forms  hid  those  of  General  Abercrombie  and  his  fair 
companion.  Still  as  a  statue,  with  eyes  that  seemed 
staring  into  vacancy,  Mrs.  Abercrombie  remained  for 
some  moments,  then  she  drew  her  hand  within  the 
gentleman's  arm  and  said  in  a  low  voice  that  was 
little  more  than  a  hoarse  whisper: 

"  Thank  you ;  yes,  I  will  go  back  to  the  par 
lors." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        133 

They  retired  from  the  room  without  attracting 
notice. 

41  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?"  asked  the  gentle 
man  as  he  seated  her  on  a  sofa  in  one  of  the  bay- 
windows  where  she  was  partially  concealed  from 
observation. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  with  regaining 
self-control.  She  then  insisted  on  being  left  alone, 
and  with  a  decision  of  manner  that  gave  her  attend 
ant  no  alternative  but  compliance. 

The  gentleman  immediately  returned  to  the  sup 
per-room.  As  he  joined  the  company  there  he  met 
a  friend  to  whom  he  said  in  a  half-confidential  way : 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  General  Aber- 
crombie's  relations  with  his  wife  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  inquired  the  friend,  with 
evident  surprise. 

"  I  saw  something  just  now  that  looks  very  sus 
picious." 

"What?" 

"  I  came  here  with  Mrs.  Abercrombie  a  little  while 
ago,  and  was  engaged  in  helping  her,  when  I  saw  her 
face  grow  deadly  pale.  Following  her  eyes,  I  ob 
served  them  fixed  on  the  general,  who  was  chatting 
gayly  and  taking  wine  with  a  lady." 

"  What !  taking  wine  did  you  say  ?" 

The  gentleman  was  almost  as  much  surprised  at 
the  altered  manner  of  his  friend  as  he  had  been  with 
that  of  Mrs.  Abercrombie  : 

"  Yes  ;  anything  strange  in  that  ?" 

12 


1 34         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  I  ess  strange  than  sad,"  was  replied.  "  I  don't 
wonder  you  saw  the  color  go  out  of  Mrs.  Abercrom- 
hie's  face." 

"  Why  so  ?     What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  It  means  sorrow  and  heartbreak." 

"  You  surprise  and  pain  me.  I  thought  of  the 
lady  by  his  side,  not  of  the  glass  of  wine  in  his 
hand." 

The  two  men  left  the  crowded  supper-room  in 
order  to  be  more  alone. 

"  You  know  something  of  the  general's  life  and 
habits  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  has  not  been  intemperate,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  am  pained  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"  Drink  is  his  besetting  sin,  the  vice  that  has  more 
than  once  come  near  leading  to  his  dismissal  from  the 
army.  He  is  one  of  the  men  who  cannot  use  wine 
or  spirits  in  moderation.  In  consequence  of  some 
diseased  action  of  the  nutritive  organs  brought  on 
by  drink,  he  has  lost  the  power  of  self-control  when 
under  the  influence  of  alcoholic  stimulation.  He  is 
a  dypso-maniac.  A  glass  of  wine  or  brandy  to  him 
is  like  the  match  to  a  train  of  powder.  I  don't  won 
der,  knowing  what  I  do  about  General  Abercrombie, 
that  his  wife  grew  deadly  pale  to-night  when  she 
saw  him  raise  a  glass  to  his  lips." 

"  Has  he  been  abstaining  for  any  length  of  time  ?" 

"  Yes ;  for  many  months  he  has  kept  himself  free. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         135 

I  am  intimate  with  an  officer  who  told  me  all  about- 
him.  When  not  under  the  influence  of  drink,  the 
general  is  one  of  the  kindest-hearted  men  in  the 
world.  To  his  wife  he  is  tender  and  indulgent 
almost  to  a  fault,  if  that  were  possible.  But  liquor 
seems  to  put  the  devil  into  him.  Drink  drowns  his 
better  nature  and  changes  him  into  a  half-insane 
fiend.  I  am  told  that  he  came  near  killing  his  wife 
more  than  once  in  a  drunken  phrensy." 

"  You  pain  me  beyond  measure.  Poor  lady !  I 
don't  wonder  that  the  life  went  out  of  her  so  sud 
denly,  nor  at  the  terror  I  saw  in  her  face.  Can 
nothing  be  done  ?  Has  he  no  friends  here  who  will 
draw  him  out  of  the  supper-room  and  get  him  away 
before  he  loses  control  of  himself?" 

"  It  is  too  late.  If  he  has  begun  to  drink,  it  is  all 
over.  You  might  as  well  try  to  draw  off  a  wolf  who 
has  tasted  blood." 

"  Does  he  become  violent  ?  Are  we  going  to 
have  a  drunken  scene  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  we  need  apprehend  nothing  of  that 
kind.  I  never  heard  of  his  committing  any  public 
folly.  The  devil  that  enters  into  him  is  not  a  riot 
ing,  boisterous  fiend,  but  quiet,  malignant,  suspi 
cious  and  cruel." 

"Suspicious?     Of  what?" 

"  Of  everybody  and  everything.  His  brother  offi 
cers  are  in  league  against  him ;  his  wife  is  regarded 
with  jealousy;  your  frankest  speech  covers  in  his 
view  some  hidden  and  sinister  meaning.  You  must 


136         Wounded  in  the  house  of  a  Friend. 

be  careful  of  your  attentions  to  Mrs.  Abercrombie 
to-night,  for  he  will  construe  them  adversely,  and 
pour  out  his  wrath  on  her  defenceless  head  when 
they  are  alone." 

"  This  is  frightful,"  was  answered.  "  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  case." 

"  Never  heard  of  a  drunken  man  assaulting  his 
wife  when  alone  with  her,  beating,  maiming  or  mur 
dering  her?" 

"  Oh  yes,  among  the  lowest  and  vilest.  But  we 
are  speaking  now  of  people  in  good  society — people 
of  culture  and  refinement." 

"  Culture  and  social  refinements  have  no  influence 
over  a  man  when  the  fever  of  intoxication  is  upon 
him.  He  is  for  the  time  an  insane  man,  and  subject 
to  the  influx  and  control  of  malignant  influences. 
Hell  rules  him  instead  of  heaven." 

"  It  is  awful  to  think  of.     It  makes  me  shudder." 

"  We  know  little  of  what  goes  on  at  home  after 
an  entertainment  like  this,"  said  the  other.  "  It  all 
looks  so  glad  and  brilliant.  Smiles,  laughter,  gayety, 
enjoyment,  meet  you  at  every  turn.  Each  one  is  at 
his  or  her  best.  It  is  a  festival  of  delight.  But  you 
cannot  at  this  day  give  wine  and  brandy  without 
stint  to  one  or  two  or  three  hundred  men  and 
women  of  all  ages,  habits,  temperaments  and  heredi 
tary  moral  and  physical  conditions  without  the  pro 
duction  of  many  evil  consequences.  It  matters 
little  what  the  social  condition  may  be;  the  hurt  of 
drink  is  the  same.  The  sphere  of  respectability 


Wounded  i.*t  the  House  of  a  Friend.         137 

may  and  does  guard  many.  Culture  and  pride  of 
position  hold  others  free  from  undue  sensual  in 
dulgence.  But  with  the  larger  number  the  entice 
ments  of  appetite  are  as  strong  and  enslaving  in  one 
grade*  of  society  as  in  another,  and  the  disturbance 
of  normal  conditions  as  great.  And  so  you  see 
that  the  wife  of  an  intoxicated  army  officer  or  law 
yer  or  banker  may  be  in  as  much  danger  from  his 
drunken  and  insane  fury,  when  alone  with  him  and 
unprotected,  as  the  wife  of  a  street-sweeper  or  hod- 
carrier." 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  Cases  of  wife-beating  and 
personal  injuries,  of  savage  and  frightful  assaults,  of 
terrors  and  sufferings  endured  among  the  refined 
and  educated,  rarely  if  ever  come  to  public  notice. 
Family  pride,  personal  delicacy  and  many  other 
considerations  seal  the  lips  in  silence.  But  there  arc 
few  social  circles  in  which  it  is  not  known  that  some 
of  its  members  are  sad  sufferers  because  of  a  hus 
band's  or  a  father's  intemperance,  and  there  are  many, 
many  fimilies,  alas  !  which  have  always  in  their 
homes  the  shadow  of  a  sorrow  that  embitters  every 
thing.  They  hide  it  as  best  they  can,  and  few  know 
or  dream  of  what  they  endure." 

Dr.  Angier  joined  the  two  men  at  this  moment, 
and  heard  the  last  remark.  The  speaker  added,  ad 
dressing  him : 

"  Your   professional   experience    will   corroborate 
this,  Dr.  Angier." 
12* 


138         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Corroborate  what  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  slight  aj> 
pearance  of  evasion  in  his  manner. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  the  effects  of  intemperance 
on  the  more  cultivated  and  refined  classes,  and  I 
said  that  it  mattered  little  as  to  the  social  condition  ; 
the  hurt  of  drink  was  the  same  and  the  disturbance 
of  normal  conditions  as  great  in  one  class  of  society 
as  in  another,  that  a  confirmed  inebriate,  when  under 
the  influence  of  intoxicants,  lost  all  idea  of  respect 
ability  or  moral  responsibility,  and  would  act  out  his 
insane  passion,  whether  he  were  a  lawyer,  an  army 
officer  or  a  hod-carrier.  In  other  words,  that  social 
position  gave  the  wife  of  an  inebriate  no  immunity 
from  personal  violence  when  alone  with  her  drunken 
husband." 

Dr.  Angier  did  not  reply,  but  his  face  became 
thoughtful. 

"  Have  you  given  much  attention  to  the  pathol 
ogy  of  drunkenness  ?"  asked  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"  Some  ;  not  a  great  deal.  The  subject  is  one  of 
the  most  perplexing  and  difficult  we  have  to  deal 
with." 

"  You  class  intemperance  with  diseases,  do  you 
not  ?" 

"  Yes ;  certain  forms  of  it.  It  may  be  hereditary 
or  acquired  like,  any  other  disease.  One  man  may 
have  a  pulmonary,  another  a  bilious  and  another  a 
dypso-maniac  diathesis,  and  an  exposure  to  exciting 
causes  in  one  case  is  as  fatal  to  health  as  in  the 
other.  If  there  exist  a  predisposition  to  consump- 


IVctindcd  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         139 

tion,  the  disease  will  be  developed  under  peculiar 
morbific  influences  which  would  have  no  deleterious 
effect  upon  a  subject  not  so  predisposed.  The  same 
law  operates  as  unerringly  in  the  inherited  predispo 
sition  to  intemperance.  Let  the  man  with  a  dypso- 
maniac  diathesis  indulge  in  the  use  of  intoxicating 
liquors,  and  he  will  surely  become  a  drunkard. 
There  is  no  more  immunity  for  him  than  for  the 
man  who  with  tubercles  in  his  lungs  exposes  him 
self  to  cold,  bad  air  and  enervating  bodily  condi 
tions." 

"  A  more  serious  view  of  the  case,  doctor,  than  is 
usually  taken." 

"  I  know,  but  a  moment's  consideration — to  say 
nothing  of  observed  facts — will  satisfy  any  reason 
able  man  of  its  truth." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  dypso-mania  as  a  medi 
cal  term  ?" 

"  The  word,"  replied  Dr.  Angier,  "  means  crazy 
for  drink,  and  is  used  in  the  profession  to  designate 
that  condition  of  alcoholic  disease  in  which  the  sub 
ject  when  under  its  influence  has  no  power  of  self- 
control.  It  is  characterized  by  an  inordinate  and 
irresistible  desire  for  alcoholic  liquors,  varying  in 
intensity  from  a  slight  departure  from  a  normal  ap 
petite  to  the  most  depraved  and  entire  abandonment 
to  its  influence.  When  this  disease  becomes  devel 
oped,  its  action  upon  the  brain  is  to  deteriorate  its 
quality  and  impair  its  functions.  All  the  faculties 
become  more  or  less  weakened.  Reason,  judgment, 


140          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

perception,  memory  and  understanding  lose  theil 
vigor  and  capacity.  The  will  becomes  powerless 
before  the  strong  propensity  to  drink.  The  moral 
sentiments  and  affections  likewise  become  involved 
in  the  general  impairment.  Conscience,  the  feeling 
of  accountability,  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  all 
become  deadened,  while  the  passions  are  aroused 
and  excited." 

"  What  an  awful  disease !"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
listeners. 

"  You  may  well  call  it  an  awful  disease,"  returned 
the  doctor,  who,  under  the  influence  of  a  few  glasses 
of  wine,  was  more  inclined  to  talk  than  usual.  "  It 
has  been  named  the  mother  of  diseases.  Its  death- 
roll  far  outnumbers  that  of  any  other.  When  it  has 
fairly  seized  upon  a  man,  no  influence  seems  able 
to  hold  him  back  from  the  indulgence  of  his  passion 
for  drink.  To  gratify  this  desire  he  will  disregard 
every  consideration  affecting  his  standing  in  society, 
his  pecuniary  interests  and  his  domestic  relations, 
while  the  most  frightful  instances  of  the  results  of 
drinking  have  no  power  to  restrain  him.  A  hundred 
deaths  from  this  cause,  occurring  under  the  most 
painful  and  revolting  circumstances,  fail  to  impress 
him  with  a  sense  of  his  own  danger.  His  under 
standing  will  be  clear  as  to  the  cases  before  him,  and 
he  will  even  condemn  the  self-destructive  acts  which 
he  sees  in  others,  but  will  pass,  as  it  were,  over  the 
very  bodies  of  these  victims,  without  a  thought  of 
warning  or  a  sense  of  fear,  in  order  to  gratify  his 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         141 

own  ungovernable  propensity.     Such  is  the  power 
of  this  terrible  malady." 

"  Has  the  profession  found  a  remedy  ?" 

"  No ;  the  profession  is  almost  wholly  at  fault  in 
its  treatment.  There  are  specialists  connected  with 
insane  and  reformatory  institutions  who  have  given 
much  attention  to  the  subject,  but  as  yet  we  have  no 
recorded  line  of  treatment  that  guarantees  a  cure." 

"  Except/'  said  one  of  his  listeners,  "  the  remedy 
of  entire  abstinence  from  drinks  in  which  alcohol  is 
present." 

The  doctor  gave  a  shrug : 

"  You  do  not  cure  a  thirsty  man  by  withholding 
water." 

His  mind  was  a  little  clouded  by  the  wine  he  had 
taken. 

"  The  thirsty  mail's  desire  for  water  is  healthy ; 
and  if  you  withhold  it,  you  create  a  disease  that  will 
destroy  him,"  was  answered.  "  Not  so  the  crav 
ing  for  alcohol.  With  every  new  supply  the  craving 
is  increased,  and  the  man  becomes  more  and  more 
helpless  in  the  folds  of  an  enslaving  appetite.  Is  it 
not  true,  doctor,  that  with  few  exceptions  all  who 
have  engaged  in  treating  inebriates  agree  that  only 
in  entire  abstinence  is  cure  possible  ?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  you  are  probably  right  there,"  Dr. 
Angier  returned,  with  some  professional  reserve. 
"  In  the  most  cases  isolation  and  abstinence  are  no 
doubt  the  only  remedies,  or,  to  speak  more  cor 
rectly,  the  only  palliatives.  As  for  cure,  I  am  one 


142          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

of  the  skeptics.  If  you  have  the  diathesis,  you  have 
the  danger  of  exposure  always,  as  in  consumption." 

"  An  occasion  like  this,"  remarked  the  other,  "  \* 
to  one  with  a  dypso- maniac  diathesis  like  a  draft  of 
cold,  damp  air  on  the  exposed  chest  of  a  delicate 
girl  who  has  the  seeds  of  consumption  in  her  lungs. 
Is  it  not  so,  doctor?" 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  There  are  over  three  hundred  persons  here  to 
night." 

"  Not  less." 

"  In  so  large  a  company,  taking  society  as  we  have 
it  to-day,  is  it  likely  that  we  have  none  here  with  3 
hereditary  or  acquired  love  of  drink  ?" 

11  Scarcely  possible,"  replied  Dr.  Angier. 

"  How  large  do  you  think  the  percentage?" 

"  I  have  no  means  of  knowing ;  but  if  we  are  tc 
judge  by  the  large  army  of  drunkards  in  the  land, 
it  must  be  fearfully  great." 

"  Then  we  cannot  invite  to  our  houses  fifty  or  a 
hundred  guests,  and  give  them  as  much  wine  and 
spirits  as  they  care  to  drink,  without  serious-ly  hurt 
ing  some  of  them.  I  say  nothing  of  the  effect  upon 
unvitiated  tastes ;  I  refer  only  to  those  with  diseased 
appetites  who  may  happen  to  be  present." 

"  It  will  be  bad  for  them,  certainly.  Such  people 
should  stay  at  home." 

And  saying  this,  Dr.  Angier  turned  from  the  two 
gentlemen  to  speak  with  a  professional  friend  who 
came  toward  him  at  the  moment. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  *THHE  doctor  likes  his  glass  of  \vine,"  remarked 
A  one  of  the  gentlemen  as  Dr.  Angier  left 
them. 

"  Is  that  so  ?" 

"  Didn't  you  observe  his  heightened  color  and 
the  gleam  in  his  eyes  ?" 

"  I  noticed  something  unusual  in  his  manner,  but 
did  not  think  it  the  effect  of  wine." 

"  He  is  a  reticent  man,  with  considerable  of  what 
may  be  called  professional  dignity,  and  doesn't  often 
let  himself  down  to  laymen  as  he  did  just  now." 

"  There  wasn't  much  letting  down,  that  I  could 
see." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  professional  pride  is  reserved 
and  sensitive  in  some  persons.  It  hasn't  much  re 
spect  for  the  opinions  of  non-experts,  and  is  chary 
of  discussion  with  laymen.  Dr.  Angier  is  weak,  or 
peculiar  if  you  please,  in  this  direction.  I  saw  that 
he  was  annoyed  at  your  reply  to  his  remark  that 
you  do  not  cure  a  thirsty  man  by  withholding  water. 
It  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  showed  his  animus.  The 
argument  was  against  him,  and  it  hurt  his  pride. 
As  I  said,  he  likes  his  glass  of  wine,  and  if  he  does 

US 


1 44          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

not  take  care  will  come  to  like  it  too  well.  A  doctor 
has  no  more  immunity  from  dypso-mania  than  his 
patient.  The  former  may  inherit  or  acquire  the 
disease  as  well  as  the  latter." 

"  How  does  the  doctor  know  that  he  has  not  from 
some  ancestor  this  fatal  diathesis  ?  Children  rarely 
if  ever  betray  to  their  children  a  knowledge  of  the 
vices  or  crimes  of  their  parents.  The  death  by  con 
sumption,  cancer  or  fever  is  a  part  of  oral  family 
history,  but  not  so  the  death  from  intemperance. 
Over  that  is  drawn  a  veil  of  silence  and  secresy,  and 
the  children  and  grandchildren  rarely  if  ever  know 
anything  about  it.  There  may  be  in  their  blood  the 
taint  of  a  disease  far  more  terrible  than  cancer  or 
consumption,  and  none  to  give  them  warning  of  the 
conditions  under  which  its  development  is  certain." 

"  Is  it  not  strange,"  was  replied,  "  that,  knowing  as 
Dr.  Angier  certainly  does,  from  what  he  said  just 
now,  that  in  all  classes  of  society  there  is  a  large 
number  who  have  in  their  physical  constitutions  the 
seeds  of  this  dreadful  disease — that,  as  I  have  said, 
knowing  this,  he  should  so  frequently  prescribe  wine 
and  whisky  to  his  patients  ?" 

"  It  is  a  little  surprising.  I  have  noticed,  now  that 
you  speak  of  it,  his  habit  in  this  respect." 

"  He  might  as  well,  on  his  own  theory,  prescribe 
thin  clothing  and  damp  air  to  one  whose  father  or 
mother  had  died  of  consumption  as  alcoholic  stimu 
lants  to  one  who  has  the  taint  of  dypso-mania  in  his 
blood.  In  one  case  as  in  the  other  the  disease  will 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         145 

almost  surely  be  developed.  This  is  common  sense, 
and  something  that  can  be  understood  by  all  men." 

"  And  yet,  strange  to  say,  the  very  men  who  have 
in  charge  the  public  health,  the  very  men  whose 
business  it  is  to  study  the  relations  between  cause 
and  effect  in  diseases,  are  the  men  who  in  far  too 
many  instances  are  making  the  worst  possible  pre 
scriptions  for  patients  in  whom  even  the  slightest 
tendency  to  inebriety  may  exist  hereditarily.  We 
have,  to  speak  plainly,  too  many  whisky  doctors, 
and  the  harm  they  are  doing  is  beyond  calculation. 
A  physician  takes  upon  himself  a  great  responsibil 
ity  when,  without  any  knowledge  of  the  antecedents 
of  a  patient  or  the  stock  from  which  he  may  have 
come,  he  prescribes  whisky  or  wine  or  brandy  as  a 
stimulant.  I  believe  thousands  of  drunkards  have 
been  made  by  these  unwise  prescriptions,  against 
which  I  am  glad  to  know  some  of  the  most  emi 
nent  men  in  the  profession,  both  in  this  country  and 
Europe,  have  entered  a  solemn  protest." 

"  There  is  one  thing  in  connection  with  the  dis 
ease  of  intemperance,"  replied  the  other,  "that  is 
very  remarkable.  It  is  the  only  one  from  which 
society  does  not  protect  itself  by  quarantine  and 
sanitary  restrictions.  In  cholera,  yellow  fever  and 
small-pox  every  effort  is  made  to  guard  healthy  dis 
tricts  from  their  invasion,  and  the  man  who  for  gain 
or  any  other  consideration  should  be  detected  in  the 
work  of  introducing  infecting  agents  would  be  exe 
crated  and  punished.  But  society  has  another  way 
is  K 


146        Wounded  in  the  Hjuse  of  a  Friend. 

of  dealing  with  the  men  who  are  engaged  in  spread 
ing  the  disease  of  intemperance  among  the  people. 
It  enacts  laws  for  their  protection,  and  gives  them 
the  largest  liberty  to  get  gain  in  their  work  of  dis 
seminating  disease  and  death,  and,  what  is  still  more 
remarkable,  actually  sells  for  money  the  r  ght  to  do 
this." 

"  You  put  the  case  sharply." 

"  Too  sharply  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  No  good  ever  comes  of  calling 
evil  things  by  dainty  names  or  veiling  hard  truth 
under  mild  and  conservative  phrases.  In  granting 
men  a  license  to  dispense  alcohol  in  every  variety  of 
enticing  forms  and  in  a  community  where  a  large 
percentage  of  the  people  have  a  predisposition  to 
intemperance,  consequent  as  well  on  hereditary 
taint  as  unhealthy  social  conditions,  society  com 
mits  itself  to  a  disastrous  error  the  fruit  of  which  is 
bitterer  to  the  taste  than  the  ashen  core  of  Dead 
Sea  apples." 

"What  about  Dead  Sea  apples?"  asked  Mr. 
Elliott,  who  came  up  at  the  moment  and  heard  the 
last  remark.  The  two  gentlemen  were  pew-holders 
in  his  church.  Mr.  Elliott's  countenance  was  radiant. 
All  his  fine  social  feelings  were  active,  and  he  HMS 
enjoying  a  "flow  of  soul,"  if  not  "a  feast  of  rea 
son."  Wine  was  making  glad  his  heart — not  excess 
of  wine,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  for  Mr.  Elliott  had 
no  morbid  desire  for  stimulants.  He  was  of  the 
•lumber  who  could  take  a  social  glass  and  not  fee1 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         147 

a.  craving  for  more.  He  believed  in  wine  as  a  good 
thing,  only  condemning  its  abuse. 

"  What  were  you  saying  about  Dead  Sea  apples  ?" 
Mr.  Elliott  repeated  his  question. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  intemperance,"  replied  one 
of  the  gentlemen. 

"  O — h !"  in  a  prolonged  and  slightly  indifferent 
tone.  Mr.  Elliott's  countenance  lost  some  of  its 
radiance.  "And  what  were  you  saying  about  it?" 

Common  politeness  required  as  much  as  this, 
even  though  the  subject  was  felt  to  be  out  of  place. 

"  We  were  talking  with  Dr.  Angier  just  now  about 
hereditary  drunkenness,  or  rather  the  inherited  pre 
disposition  to  that  vice — disease,  as  the  doctor  calls  it. 
This  predisposition  he  says  exists  in  a  large  number 
of  persons,  and  is  as  well  defined  pathologically, 
and  as  certain  to  become  active  under  favoring  causes, 
as  any  other  disease.  Alcoholic  stimulants  are  its 
exciting  causes.  Let,  said  the  doctor,  a  man  so  pre 
disposed  indulge  in  the  use  of  intoxicating  liquors, 
and  he  will  surely  become  a  drunkard.  There  is  no 
more  immunity  for  him,  he  added,  than  for  the  man 
who  with  tubercles  in  his  lungs  exposes  himself  to 
cold,  bad  air  and  enervating  bodily  condition^. 
Now,  is  not  this  a  very  serious  view  to  take  of  tfye 
matter  ?" 

"  Certainly  it  is,"  replied  Mr.  Elliott.  "  Intemper 
ance  is  a  sad  thing,  and  a  most  fearful  curse." 

He  did  not  look  comfortable.  It  was  to  him  an 
untimely  intrusion  of  an  unpleasant  theme,  "  But 


148         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

what  in  the  world  set  the  doctor  off  on  this  sub 
ject?"  he  asked,  trying  to  make  a  diversion. 

"  Occasions  are  apt  to  suggest  subjects  for  conver 
sation,"  answered  the  gentleman.  "  One  cannot  be 
present  at  a  large  social  entertainment  like  this  with 
out  seeing  some  things  that  awaken  doubts  and 
questionings.  If  it  be  true,  as  Dr.  Angier  says,  that 
the  disease  of  intemperance  is  as  surely  transmitted, 
potentially,  as  the  disease  of  consumption,  and  will 
become  active  under  favoring  circumstances,  then  a 
drinking  festival  cannot  be  given  without  fearful  risk 
to  some  of  the  invited  guests." 

"  There  is  always  danger  of  exciting  disease 
where  a  predisposition  exists,"  replied  Mr.  Elliott. 
"  A  man  can  hardly  be  expected  to  make  himself 
acquainted  with  the  pathology  of  his  guests  before 
inviting  them  to  a  feast.  If  that  is  to  be  the  rule, 
the  delicate  young  lady  with  the  seeds  of  consump 
tion  in  her  system  must  be  left  at  home  for  fear  she 
may  come  with  bare  arms  and  a  low-necked  dress, 
and  expose  herself  after  being  heated  with  dancing 
to  the  draught  of  an  open  window.  The  bilious  and 
dyspeptic  must  be  omitted  also,  lest  by  imprudent 
eating  and  drinking  they  make  themselves  sick. 
We  cannot  regulate  these  things.  The  best  we  can 
do  is  to  warn  and  admonish.  Every  individual  is 
responsible  for  his  own  moral  character,  habits  and 
life.  Because  some  may  become  the  slaves  of  appe 
tite,  shall  restraint  and  limitation  be  placed  on  those 
who  make  no  abuse  of  liberty?  We  must  teach 


Wou-k  ded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        149 

men  self-control  and  self-mastery,  if  we  would  truly 
help  and  save  them.  There  is  some  exaggeration, 
in  my  opinion,  about  this  disease-theory  of  intem 
perance.  The  deductions  of  one-idea  men  are  not 
always  to  be  trusted.  They  are  apt  to  draw  large 
conclusions  from  small  facts.  Man  is  born  a  free 
agent,  and  all  men  have  power,  if  they  will,  to  hold 
their  appetites  in  check.  This  truth  should  be 
strongly  impressed  upon  every  one.  Your  disease- 
theory  takes  away  moral  responsibility.  It  assumes 
that  a  man  is  no  more  accountable  for  getting  drunk 
than  for  getting  the  consumption.  His  diathesis 
excuses  him  as  much  in  one  case  as  in  the  other. 
Now,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  this.  I  do  not  class 
appetites,  however  inordinate,  with  physical  diseases 
over  which  the  will  has  no  control.  A  man  must 
control  his  appetite.  Reason  and  conscience  require 
this,  and  God  gives  to  every  one  the  mastery  of 
himself  if  he  will  but  use  his  high  prerogative." 

Mr.  Elliott  spoke  a  little  loftily,  and  in  a  voice 
that  expressed  a  settlement  of  the  argument.  But 
one  at  least  of  his  listeners  was  feeling  too  strongly 
on  the  subject  to  let  the  argument  close. 

"What,"  he  asked,  "if  a  young  man  who  did  not, 
because  he  could  not,  know  that  he  had  dypso- 
mania  in  his  blood  were  enticed  to  drink  often  at 
parties  where  wine  is  freely  dispensed  ?  Would  he 
not  be  taken,  so  to  speak,  unawares  ?  Would  he  be 
any  more  responsible  for  acts  that  quickened  into 
.ife  an  over-mastering  appetite  than  the  young  girl 

13  » 


150         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

who,  not  knowing  that  she  had  in  her  lungs  the 
seeds  of  a  fatal  disease,  should  expose  herself  to 
atmospheric  changes  that  were  regarded  by  her  com 
panions  as  harmless,  but  which  to  her  were  fraught 
with  peril?" 

"  In  both  cases,"  replied  Mr.  Elliott,  "  the  respon 
sibility  to  care  for  the  health  would  come  the  mo 
ment  it  was  found  to  be  in  danger." 

"  The  discovery  of  danger  may  come,  alas !  too 
late  for  responsible  action.  We  know  that  it  does 
in  most  cases  with  the  consumptive,  and  quite  as 
often,  I  fear,  with  the  dypso-maniac." 

As  the  gentleman  was  closing  the  last  sentence  he 
observed  a  change  pass  over  the  face  of  Mr.  Elliott, 
who  was  looking  across  the  room.  Following  the 
direction  of  his  eyes,  he  saw  General  Abercrombie 
in  the  act  of  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Abercrombie. 
It  was  evident,  from  the  expression  of  his  counte 
nance  and  that  of  the  countenances  of  all  who  were 
near  him,  that  something  had  gone  wrong.  The 
general's  face  was  angry  and  excited.  His  eyes 
had  a  fierce  restlessness  in  them,  and  glanced  from 
his  wife  to  a  gentleman  who  stood  confronting  him 
and  then  back  to  her  in  a  strange  and  menacing 
way. 

Mrs.  Abercrombie's  face  was  deadly  pale.  She 
said  a  few  words  hurriedly  to  her  husband,  and  then 
drew  him  from  the  parlor. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott,  crossing 
over  and  speaking  to  the  gentleman  against  whom 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         151 

the  anger  of  General  Abercrombie  had  seemed  to 
be  directed. 

"  Heaven  knows,"  was  answered,  "  unless  he's 
jealous  of  his  wife." 

"  Very  strange  conduct,"  said  one. 

"  Been  drinking  too  much,"  remarked  another. 

"  What  did  he  do  ?"  inquired  a  third. 

"  Didn't  you  see  it  ?  Mr.  Ertsen  was  promenad 
ing  with  Mrs.  Abercrombie,  when  the  general  swept 
down  upon  them  as  fierce  as  a  lion  and  took  the 
lady  from  his  arm." 

This  was  exaggeration.  The  thing  was  done  more 
quietly,  but  still  with  enough  of  anger  and  menace  to 
create  something  more  than  a  ripple  on  the  surface. 

A  little  while  afterward  the  general  and  Mrs.  Aber 
crombie  were  seen  coming  down  stairs  and  going 
along  the  hall.  His  face  was  rigid  and  stern.  He 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  but  with  eyes 
set  forward  made  his  way  toward  the  street  door. 
Those  who  got  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Abercrombie  as 
she  glided  past  saw  a  face  that  haunted  them  a  long 
time  afterward. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AS  General  and  Mrs.  Abercrombie  reached  the 
vestibule,  and  the  door  shut  behind  them,  the 
latter,  seeing  that  her  husband  was  going  out  into 
the  storm,  which  was  now  at  it,  height,  drew  back, 
asking  at  the  same  time  if  their  carriage  had  been 
called. 

The  only  answer  made  by  General  Abercrombie 
was  a  fiercely-uttered  imprecation.  Seizing  at  the 
same  time  the  arm  she  had  dropped  from  his,  he 
drew  her  out  of  the  vestibule  and  down  the  snow- 
covered  step  with  a  sudden  violence  that  threw  her 
to  the  ground.  As  he  dragged  her  up  he  cursed  her 
again  in  a  cruel  undertone,  and  then,  grasping  her 
arm,  moved  off  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  blinding 
tempest,  going  so  swiftly  that  she  could  not  keep 
pace  with  him.  Before  they  had  gone  a  dozen  steps 
she  fell  again. 

Struggling  to  her  feet,  helped  up  by  the  strong  grasp 
of  the  madman  whose  hand  was  upon  her  arm,  Mrs. 
Abercrombie  tried  to  rally  her  bewildered  thoughts. 
She  knew  that  her  life  was  in  danger,  but  she  knew 
also  that  much,  if  not  everything,  depended  on  her 
own  conduct.  The  very  extremity  of  her  periJ 

152 


Wounded  in  the  Rouse  of  a  Friend.         153 

calmed  her  thoughts  and  gave  them  clearness  an<? 
decision.  Plunging  forward  as  soon  as  his  wife 
could  recover  herself  again,  General  Abercrombie 
strode  away  with  a  speed  that  made  it  almost  im 
possible  for  her  to  move  on  without  falling,  espe 
cially  as  the  snow  was  lying  deep  and  unbroken  on 
the  pavement,  and  her  long  dress,  which  she  had  not 
taken  time  to  loop  up  before  starting,  dragged  about 
her  feet  and  impeded  her  steps.  They  had  not 
gone  half  a  block  before  she  fell  again.  A  wild 
beast  could  hardly  have  growled  more  savagely 
than  did  this  insane  man  as  he  caught  her  up  from 
the  bed  of  snow  into  which  she  had  fallen  and  shook 
her  with  fierce  passion.  A  large,  strong  man,  with 
an  influx  of  demoniac  strength  in  every  muscle,  his 
wife  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  his  hands.  He 
could  have  crushed  the  life  out  of  her  at  a  single 
grip. 

Not  a  word  or  sound  came  from  Mrs.  Abercrombie 
The  snow  that  covered  the  earth  was  scarcely  whiter 
than  her  rigid  face.  Her  eyes,  as  the  light  of  a 
flickering  gas-lamp  shone  into  them,  hardly  reflected 
back  its  gleam,  so  leaden  was  their  despair. 

He  shook  her  fiercely,  the  tightening  grasp  on  her 
arms  bruising  the  tender  flesh,  cursed  her,  and  then, 
in  a  blind  fury,  cast  her  from  him  almost  into  the 
middle  of  the  street,  where  she  lay  motionless,  half 
buried  in  the  snow.  For  some  moments  he  stood 
looking  at  the  prostrate  form  of  his  wife,  on  which 
the  snow  sifted  rapidly  down,  making  the  dark  gar- 


154         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

ments  white  in  so  short  a  space  of  time  that  she 
seemed  to  fade  from  his  view.  It  was  this,  perhaps, 
that  wrought  a  sudden  change  in  his  feelings,  for 
he  sprang  toward  her,  and  taking  her  up  in  his 
arms,  called  her  name  anxiously.  She  did  not  reply 
by  word  or  sign.  He  carried  her  back  to  the  pave 
ment  and  turned  her  face  to  the  lamp ;  it  was  white 
and  still,  the  eyes  closed,  the  mouth  shut  rigidly. 

But  Mrs.  Abercrombie  was  not  unconscious. 
Every  sense  was  awake. 

"  Edith  !  Edith  !"  her  husband  cried.  His  tones, 
anxious  at  first,  now  betrayed  alarm.  A  carriage 
went  by  at  the  moment.  He  called  to  the  driver, 
but  was  unheard  or  unheeded.  Up  and  down  the 
street,  the  air  of  which  was  so  filled  with  snow  that 
he  could  see  only  a  short  distance,  he  looked  in 
vain  for  the  form  of  a  policeman  or  citizen.  He  was 
alone  in  the  street  at  midnight,  blocks  away  from 
his  residence,  a  fierce  storm  raging  in  the  air,  the 
cold  intense,  and  his  wife  apparently  insensible  in 
his  arms.  If  anything  could  free  his  brain  from  its 
illusions,  cause  enough  was  here.  He  shouted  aloud 
for  help,  but  there  came  no  answer  on  the  wild 
careering  winds.  Another  carnage  went  by,  moving 
in  ghostly  silence,  but  his  call  to  the  driver  was 
unheeded,  as  before. 

Feeling  the  chill  of  the  intensely  cold  air  going 
deeper  and  deeper,  and  conscious  of  the  helpless 
ness  of  their  situation  unless  she  used  the  strength 
that  yet  remained,  Mrs.  Abercrombie  showed  symp- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Pritnd.         155 

toms  of  returning  life  and  power  of  action.  Per 
ceiving  this,  the  general  drew  an  arm  around  her 
for  support  and  made  a  motion  to  go  on  again,  to 
which  she  responded  by  moving  forward,  but  with 
slow  and  not  very  steady  steps.  Soon,  however, 
she  walked  more  firmly,  and  began  pressing  on  with 
a  haste  that  ill  accorded  with  the  apparent  condition 
out  of  which  she  had  come  only  a  few  moments 
before 

The  insane  are  often  singularly  quick  in  percep 
tion,  and  General  Abercrombie  was  for  the  time 
being  as  much  insane  as  any  patient  of  an  asylum. 
It  flashed  into  his  mind  that  his  wife  had  been 
deceiving  him,  had  been  pretending  a  faint,  when  she 
was  as  strong  of  limb  and  clear  of  intellect  as  when 
they  left  Mr.  Birtwell's.  At  this  thought  the  half- 
expelled  devil  that  had  been  controlling  him  leaped 
back  into  his  heart,  filling  it  again  with  evil  passions. 
But  the  wind  was  driving  the  fine,  sand-like,  sharp- 
cutting  snow  into  his  face  with  such  force  and 
volume  as  to  half  suffocate  and  bewilder  him. 
Turning  at  this  moment  a  corner  of  the  street  that 
brought  him  into  the  clear  sweep  of  the  storm,  the 
wind  struck  him  with  a  force  that  seemed  given  by 
a  human  hand,  and  threw  him  staggering  against 
his  wife,  both  falling. 

Struggling  to  his  feet,  General  Abercrombie  cursed 
his  wife  as  he  jerked  her  from  the  ground  with  a 
sudden  force  that  came  near  dislocating  her  arm. 
She  gave  no  word  of  remonstrance  nor  cry  of  pain 


156         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

or  fear,  but  did  all  in  her  power  to  keep  up  with  her 
husband  as  he  drove  on  again  with  mad  precipi 
tation. 

How  they  got  home  Mrs.  Abercrombie  hardly 
knew,  but  home  they  were  at  last  and  in  their  own 
room,  the  door  closed  and  locked  and  the  key  with 
drawn  by  her  husband,  out  of  whose  manner  all  the 
wild  passion  had  gone.  His  movements  were  quiet 
and  his  voice  when  he  spoke  low,  but  his  wife  knew 
by  the  gleam  of  his  restless  eyes  that  thought  and 
purpose  were  active. 

Their  room  was  in  the  third  story  of  a  large  board 
ing-house  in  a  fashionable  part  of  the  city.  The 
outlook  was  upon  the  street.  The  house  was  dou 
ble,  a  wide  hall  running  through  the  centre.  There 
were  four  or  five  large  rooms  on  this  floor,  all  occu 
pied.  In  the  one  adjoining  theirs  were  a  lady  and 
gentleman  who  had  been  at  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell's 
party,  and  who  drove  up  in  a  carriage  just  as  the 
general  and  Mrs.  Abercrombie,  white  with  snow, 
came  to  the  door.  They  entered  together,  the  lady 
expressing  surprise  at  their  appearance,  at  which  the 
general  growled  some  incoherent  sentences  and 
strode  away  from  them  and  up  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Aber 
crombie  following  close  after  him. 

"  There's  something  wrong,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the 
gentleman,  whose  name  was  Craig,  as  he  and  his  wife 
gained  their  own  room.  "They  went  in  a  carriage, 
I  know.  What  can  it  mean  ?" 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friena.         157 

"  I  hope  the  general  has  not  been  drinking  too 
much,"  remarked  the  wife. 

"I'm  afraid  he  has.  He  used  to  be  very  intem 
perate,  I've  heard,  but  reformed  a  year  or  two  ago. 
A  man  with  any  weakness  in  this  direction  would 
be  in  danger  at  an  entertainment  such  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Birtwell  gave  to-night." 

"  I  saw  the  general  taking  wine  with  a  lady,"  said 
Mrs.  Craig. 

"  If  he  took  one  glass,  he  would  hardly  set  that  as 
a  limit.  It  were  much  easier  to  abstain  altogether; 
and  we  know  that  if  a  man  over  whom  drink  has 
once  gained  the  mastery  ventures  upon  the  smallest 
indulgence  of  his  appetite  he  is  almost  sure  to  give 
way  and  to  fall  again.  It's  a  strange  thing,  and  sad 
as  strange." 

"  Hark !" 

Mr.  Craig  turned  quickly  toward  the  door  which 
when  opened  made  a  communication  between  their 
apartment  and  that  of  General  and  Mrs.  Abercrom- 
bie.  It  was  shut,  and  fastened  on  both  sides,  so  that 
it  could  not  be  opened  by  the  occupants  of  either 
room. 

A  low  but  quickly-stifled  cry  had  struck  on  the 
ears  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig.  They  looked  at  each 
other  with  questioning  glances  for  several  moments, 
listening  intently,  but  the  cry  was  not  repeated. 

"  I  don't  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Craig.  He  spoke 
with  concern. 

"  What  can  it  mean  ?"  asktd  his  wife. 

14 


158        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Heaven  knows  !"  he  replied. 

They  sat  silent  and  listening.  A  sharp  click, 
which  the  ear  of  Mr.  Craig  detected  as  the  souna 
made  by  the  cocking  of  a  pistol,  struck  upon  the 
still  air.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  took  a  step  or 
two  toward  the  door  leading  into  the  hall,  but  his 
wife  caught  his  arm  and  clung  to  it  tightly. 

"  No,  no  !  Wait !  wait !"  she  cried,  in  a  deep  whis 
per,  while  her  face  grew  ashen  pale.  For  some  mo 
ments  they  stood  with  repressed  breathing,  every 
instant  expecting  to  hear  the  loud  report  of  a  pistol. 
But  the  deep  silence  remained  unbroken  for  nearly 
a  minute ;  then  a  dull  movement  of  feet  was  heard 
in  the  room,  and  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a 
drawer. 

"  No,  general,  you  will  not  do  that,"  they  heard 
Mrs.  Abercrombie  say,  in  a  low,  steady  tone  in 
which  fear  struggled  with  tenderness. 

"  Why  will  I  not  do  it  ?"  was  sternly  demanded. 
They  were  standing  near  the  door,  so  that  their 
voices  could  be  heard  distinctly  in  the  next  room. 

"  Because  you  love  me  too  well,"  was  the  sweet, 
quiet  answer.  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Abercrombie  did 
not  betray  a  single  tremor. 

All  was  hushed  again.  Then  came  another  move 
ment  in  the  room,  and  the  sound  of  a  closing  drawer. 

Mi.  and  Mrs.  Craig  were  beginning  to  breathe 
more  freely,  when  the  noise  as  of  some  one  spring 
ing  suddenly  upon  another  was  heard,  followed  by 
a  struggle  and  a  choking  cry.  It  continued  so  long 


Wound td  in  tlie  House  of  a  Friend.        159 

that  Mr.  Craig  raft  out  into  the  hall  and  knocked  at 

the  door  of  General  Abercrombie's  room.     As  he 

\\ 

did  so  the  noise  of  struggling  ceased,  and  all  grevy 
still.  The  door  was  not  opened  to  his  sumrnops^ 
and  after  waiting  for  a  little  while  he  went  back  to 
his  own  room. 

"  This  is  dreadful,"  he  said.  "  What  can.  it;  mean  ? 
The  general  must  be  insane  from  drink.  Something 
will  have  to  be  done.  He  may  be  strangling  his 
poor  wife  at  this  very  moment.  I  cannot  bear  it 
I  must  break  open  the  door." 

Mr.  Craig  started  toward  the  hall,  but  his  wife 
seized  hold  of  him  and  held,  him  back. 

"  No,  no,  no !"  she  cried,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Let 
them  alone.  It  may  be  her  only  chance  of  safety. 
Hark !" 

The  silence  in  General  Abercrombie's  room  was 
again  broken.  A  man's  firm  tread  was  on  the  floor 
and  it  could  be  heard  passing  clear  across  the  apart;- 
ment,  then  returning  and  then,  going  from  side  to 
side.  At  lengln  the  sound  of  mpving  furniture  was 
heard.  It  was  as  if  a  person  were  lifting  a  heavy 
wardrobe  or  bureau,  ancj  getting  it  with  some  diffi 
culty  from  one  part  of  the  room  to  the  other. 

"  What  can  he  be  dqing  ?/'  questioned  Mrs.  Craig, 
with  great  alarm. 

"  He  is  going  to  barricade  the  door,  most  likely," 
replied  her  husband. 

"  Barricade  the  door?  What  for?  Good  heavens, 
Mr.  Craig !  He  may  have  killed  his  wife.  She  may 


1 60          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

be  lying  in  there  dead  at  this  very  moment.  Oh,  it 
is  fearful !  Can  nothing  be  done?" 

"  Nothing,  that  1  know  of,  except  to  break  into 
the  room." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  rouse  some  of  the  boarders, 
or  call  a  waiter  and  send  for  the  police  ?" 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Abercrombie  was  heard  at  this 
moment.  It  was  calm  and  clear. 

"  Let  me  help  you,  general,"  she  said. 

The  noise  of  moving  furniture  became  instantly 
still.  It  seemed  as  it  the  madman  had  turned  in  sur 
prise  from  his  work  and  stood  confronting  his  wife, 
but  whether  in  wrath  or  not  it  was  impossible  to 
conjecture.  They  might  hear  her  fall  to  the  floor, 
stricken  down  by  her  husband,  or  cry  out  in  mortal 
agony  at  any  moment.  The  suspense  was  dreadful. 

"  Do  it !     I  am  ready." 

It  was  Mrs.  Abercrombie  speaking  again,  and  in  a 
calm,  even  voice.  They  heard  once  more,  and  with 
curdling  blood,  the  sharp  click  of  a  pistol-lock  as 
the  hammer  was  drawn  back.  They  held  their 
breaths  in  horror  and  suspense,  not  moving  lest 
even  the  slightest  sound  they  made  should  precipi 
tate  the  impending  tragedy. 

*'  I  have  been  a  good  and  true  wife  to  you  always, 
and  I  shall  remain  so  even  unto  death." 

The  deep  pathos  of  her  quiet  voice  brought  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig. 

"  If  you  are  tired  of  me,  T  am  ready  to  go.  Look 
into  my  eyes.  You  see  that  1  am  not  afraid." 


"  I  have  been  a  good  and  true  wife  to  you  always,  and  shall 

oemain  so  even  unto  death." 

PAGE  160. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         i6l 

It  was  still  as  death  again.  The  clear,  tender  eyes 
that  looked  so  steadily  into  those  of  General  Aber- 
crombie  held  him  like  a  spell,  and  made  his  fingers 
so  nerveless  that  they  could  not  respond  to  the 
passion  of  the  murderous  fiend  that  possessed  him. 
That  was  why  the  scared  listeners  did  not  hear  the 
deadly  report  of  the  pistol  he  was  holding  within  a 
few  inches  of  his  wife's  head. 

"  Let  me  put  it  away.  It  isn't  a  nice  thing  to 
have  in  a  lady's  chamber.  You  know  I  can't  bear 
the  sight  of  a  pistol,  and  you  love  me  too  well  to 
give  me  the  smallest  pain  or  uneasiness.  That's  a 
dear,  good  husband." 

They  could  almost  see  Mrs.  Abercrombie  take 
the  deadly  weapon  from  the  general's  hand.  They 
heard  her  dress  trailing  across  the  room,  and  heard 
her  open  and  shut  and  then  lock  a  drawer.  For 
some  time  afterward  they  could  hear  the  low  sound 
of  voices,  then  all  became  silent  again. 

"  Give  me  that  pistol !"  startled  them  not  long 
afterward  in  a  sudden  wild  outbreak  of  frenzied 
passion. 

"What  do  you  want  with  it?"  they  heard  Mrs. 
Abercrombie  ask.  There  was  no  sign  of  alarm  in 
her  tones. 

"  Give  me  that  pistol,  I  say !"  The  general's  voice 
was  angry  and  imperious.  "  How  dared  you  take 
it  out  of  my  hand !" 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  wished  it  put  away  because 
the  sight  of  a  pistol  is  unpleasant  to  me." 

14  »  *4 


1 62          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

And  they  heard  the  dress  trailing  across  the  room 
again. 

"  Stop !"  cried  the  general,  in  a  commanding  tone. 

"Just  as  you  please,  general.  You  can  have  the 
pistol  if  you  want  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Abercrombie, 
without  the  smallest  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  Shall  I 
get  it  for  you  ?" 

"  No  !"  He  flung  the  word  out  angrily,  giving  it 
emphasis  by  an  imprecation.  Then  followed  a  growl 
as  if  from  an  ill-natured  beast,  and  they  could  hear 
his  heavy  tread  across  the  floor. 

44  Oh,  general !"  came  suddenly  from  the  lips  of 
Mrs.  Abercrombie,  in  a  surprised,  frightened  tone. 
Then  followed  the  sound  of  a  repressed  struggle, 
of  an  effort  to  get  free  without  making  a  noise  or 
outcry,  which  continued  for  a  considerable  time, 
accompanied  by  a  low  muttering  and  panting  as  of 
a  man  in  some  desperate  effort. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig  stood  with  pale  faces,  irreso 
lute  and  powerless  to  help,  whatever  might  be  the 
extremity  of  their  neighbor.  To  attempt  a  forcible 
entry  into  the  room  was  a  doubtful  expedient,  and 
might  be  attended  with  instant  fatal  consequences. 
The  muttering  and  panting  ceased  at  length,  and  so 
did  all  signs  of  struggling  and  resistance.  The  mad 
man  had  wrought  his  will,  whatever  that  might  be. 
Breathlessly  they  listened,  but  not  a  sound  broke 
the  deep  silence.  Minutes  passed,  but  the  stillness 
reigned. 

"  He  may  have  killed  her,"  whispered  Mrs.  Craig, 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         163 

with  white  lips.  Her  husband  pressed  his  ear  closer) 
to  the  door. 

"  Do  you  hear  anything  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"What?* 

They  spoke  in  a  low  whisper. 

"  Put  your  ear  against  the  door." 

Mrs.  Craig  did  so,  and  after  a  moment  or  two 
could  hear  a  faint  movement,  as  of  something  being 
pulled  across  the  carpet.  The  sound  was  intermit 
tent,  now  being  very  distinct  and  now  ceasing  alto 
gether.  The  direction  of  the  movement  was  toward 
that  part  of  the  room  occupied  by  the  bed.  The 
listeners'  strained  sense  of  hearing  was  so  acute  that 
it  was  able  to  interpret  the  meaning  of  each  varying 
sound.  A  body  had  been  slowly  dragged  across  the 
floor,  and  now,  hushed  and  almost  noiselessly  as  the 
work  went  on,  they  knew  that  the  body  was  being 
lifted  from  the  floor  and  placed  upon  the  bed.  For 
a  little  while  all  was  quiet,  but  the  movements  soon 
began  again,  and  were  confined  to  the  bed.  Some 
thing  was  being  done  with  the  dead  or  unconscious 
body.  What,  it  was  impossible  to  make  out  or  even 
guess.  Mrs.  Abercrombie  might  be  lifeless,  in  a 
swoon  or  only  feigning  unconsciousness. 

"  It  won't  do  to  let  this  go  on  any  longer,"  said 
Mr.  Craig  as  he  came  back  from  the  door  at  which 
he  had  been  listening.  "I  must  call  some  of  the 
boarders  and  have  a  consultation." 

He  was  turning  to  go  out,  when  a  sound  as  of  a 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

falling  chair  came  from  General  Abercrombie's  room, 
and  caused  him  to  stop  and  turn  back.  This  was 
followed  by  the  quick  tread  of  heavy  feet  going  up 
and  down  the  chamber  floor,  and  continuing  without 
intermission  for  as  much  as  five  minutes.  It  stopped 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  and  all  was  silent 
again.  They  knew  that  the  general  was  standing 
close  by  the  bed. 

"  My  God !"  in  a  tone  full  of  anguish  and  fear 
dropped  from  his  lips.  "  Edith  !  Edith  !  oh,  Edith !" 
he  called  in  a  low  wail  of  distress.  "  Speak  to  me, 
Edith  !  Why  don't  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

They  listened,  but  heard  no  answer.  General 
Abercrombie  called  the  name  of  his  wife  over  and 
over  again,  and  in  terms  of  endearment,  but  for  all 
Mr.  and  Mrs,  Craig  could  tell  she  gave  back  no 
sign. 

"  O  my  God !  what  have  I  done  ?"  they  heard 
him  say,  the  words  followed  by  a  deep  groan. 

"  It  is  my  time  now ;"  and  Mr.  Craig  ran  out  into 
the  hall  as  he  said  this  and  knocked  at  the  general's 
door.  But  no  answer  came.  He  knocked  again, 
and  louder  than  at  first.  After  waiting  for  a  short 
time  he  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  The  door 
was  opened  a  few  inches,  and  he  saw  through  the 
aperture  the  haggard  and  almost  ghastly  face  of 
General  Abercrombie.  His  eyes  were  wild  and  dis 
tended. 

"  What  do  you  want?"  he  demanded,  impatiently. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Abercrombie  sick  ?     Can  we  do  anything 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        165 

for  you,  general  ?"  said  Mr.  Craig,  uttering  the  sen 
tences  that  came  first  to  his  tongue. 

"  No !"  in  angry  rejection  of  the  offered  service. 
The  door  shut  with  a  jar,  and  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock.  Mr.  Craig  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute,  and 
then  went  back  to  his  wife.  Nothing  more  was 
heard  in  the  adjoining  room.  Though  they  lis 
tened  for  a  long  time,  no  voice  nor  sound  of  any  kind 
came  to  their  ears.  The  general  had,  to  all  appear 
ance,  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed  and  fallen  asleep. 

It  was  late  on  the  next  morning  when  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Craig  awoke.  Their  first  thought  was  of  their 
neighbors,  General  and  Mrs.  Abercrombie.  The 
profoundest  silence  reigned  in  their  apartment — a 
silence  death-like  and  ominous. 

"If  he 'has  murdered  her!"  said  Mrs.  Craig,  shiv 
ering  at  the  thought  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  hope  not,  but  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  the  first 
one  who  goes  into  that  room,"  replied  her  husband. 
Then,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  said : 

"  If  anything  has  gone  wrong  in  there,  we  must  be 
on  our  guard  and  make  no  admissions.  It  won't  do 
for  us  to  let  it  be  known  that  we  heard  the  dreadful 
things  going  on  there  that  we  did,  and  yet  gave  no 
alarm.  I'm  not  satisfied  with  myself,  and  can  hardly 
expect  others  to  excuse  where  I  condemn." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHEN  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig  entered  the  break 
fast-room,  they  saw,  to  their  surprise,  General 
Abercrombie  and  his  wife  sitting  in  their  usual  places. 
They  bowed  to   each  other,  as  was  their  custom  on 
meeting  at  the  table. 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Abercrombie  was  pale  and  her 
features  pinched.  She  had  the  appearance  of  one 
who  had  been  ill  and  was  just  recovering,  or  of 
one  who  had  endured  exhausting  pain  of  mind  or 
body.  She  arose  from  the  table  soon  after  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Craig  made  their  appearance,  and  retired  with 
her  husband  from  the  room. 

"The  general  is  all  out  of  sorts  this  morning," 
remarked  a  lady  as  soon  as  they  were  gone. 

"  And  so  is  Mrs.  Abercrombie,"  said  another. 
"  Dissipation  does  not  agree  with  them.  They  were 
at  the  grand  party  given  last  night  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Birtwell.  You  were  among  the  guests,  Mrs. 
Craig?" 

The  lady  addressed  bowed  her  affirmative. 

"  A  perfect  jam,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Who  were  there?     But  I  needn't  ask.     All  the 
world  and  his  wife,  of  course,  little  bugs  and  big 
Dugs.     How  was  the  entertainment  ?" 
1M 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        167 

"  Splendid  !  I  never  saw  such  a  profusion  of  every 
thing." 

"  Fools  make  feasts  for  wise  men  to  eat,"  snapped 
out  the  sharp  voice  of  a  lady  whose  vinegar  face 
gave  little  promise  of  enjoyment  of  any  kind.  "  No 
body  thinks  any  more  of  them  for  it.  Better  have 
given  the  money  to  some  charity.  There's  want  and 
suffering  enough  about,  Heaven  knows." 

"  I  don't  imagine  that  the  charity  fund  has  suffered 
anything  in  consequence  of  Mr.  Birtwell's  costly 
entertainment,"  replied  Mr.  Craig.  "  If  the  money 
spent  for  last  night's  feast  had  not  gone  to  the  wine- 
merchant  and  the  caterer,  it  would  have  remained  as 
it  was." 

The  lady  with  the  vinegar  face  said  something 
about  the  Dives  w'lo  have  their  good  things  here, 
adding,  with  a  zest  in  her  voice,  that  "  Riches, 
thank  God !  can't  be  taken  over  to  the  other  side, 
and  your  nabobs  will  be  no  better  off  after  they  die 
than  the  commonest  beggars." 

"  That  will  depend  on  something  more  than  the 
money-aspect  of  the  case,"  said  Mr.  Craig.  "  And 
as  to  the  cost  of  giving  a  feast,  what  would  be 
extravagance  in  one  might  only  be  a  liberal  hospi 
tality  in  another.  Cake  and  ice  cream  for  my  friends 
might  be  as  lavish  an  expenditure  for  me  as  Mr. 
Birtwell's  banquet  last  night  was  for  him,  and  as 
likely  to  set  me  among  the  beggars  when  I  get  over 
to  the  other  side." 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  that  God  holds  rich  men 


1 68         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

to  a  strict  account  for  the  manner  in  which  they 
spend  the  money  he  has  placed  in  their  hands? 
Are  they  not  his  almoners  ?" 

"  No  more  than  poor  men,  and  not  to  be  held  to 
any  stricter  accountability,"  was  replied.  "  Mr.  Birt- 
well  does  not  sin  against  the  poor  when  he  lavishes 
his  hundreds,  or  it  may  be  thousands,  of  dollars  in 
the  preparation  of  a  feast  for  his  friends  any  more 
than  you  do  when  you  buy  a  box  of  French  candies 
to  eat  alone  in  your  room  or  share  with  your  visitors, 
maybe  not  so  much." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  the  vinegar- 
faced  lady,  who  did  not  fail  in  a  sharp  retort  which 
was  more  acid  than  convincing.  The  conversation 
then  went  back  to  General  Abercrombie  and  his 
wife. 

"  Didn't  she  look  dreadful  ?"  remarked  one  of  the 
company. 

"And  her  manner  toward  the  general  was  so 
singular." 

"  In  what  respect  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Craig. 

"  She  looked  at  him  so  strangely,  so  anxious  and 
scared-like.  I  never  knew  him  to  be  so  silent. 
He's  social  and  talkative,  you  know — such  good 
company.  But  he  hadn't  a  word  to  say  this  morn 
ing.  Something  has  gone  wrong  between  him  and 
his  wife.  I  wonder  what  it  can  be  ?" 

But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craig,  who  were  not  of  the  gos 
siping  kind,  were  disposed  to  keep  their  own  coun- 
lei. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         169 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  unusual  noises  in  their 
room  last  night  after  they  came  home  from  the 
party,"  said  a  lady  whose  chamber  was  opposite 
theirs  across  the  hall.  "  They  seemed  to  be  moving 
furniture  about,  and  twice  I  thought  I  heard  a 
scream.  But  then  the  storm  was  so  high  that  one 
might  easily  have  mistaken  a  wail  of  the  wind  for 
a  cry  of  distress." 

"  A  cry  of  distress  !  You  didn't  imagine  that  the 
general  was  maltreating  his  wife  ?" 

"  I  intimated  nothing  of  the  kind,"  returned  the 
lady. 

"  But  what  made  you  think  about  a  cry  of  dis 
tress  ?" 

"  I  merely  said  that  I  thought  I  heard  a  scream ; 
and  if  you  had  been  awake  from  twelve  to  one  or 
two  o'clock  this  morning,  you  would  have  thought 
the  air  full  of  wailing  voices.  The  storm  chafed 
about  the  roof  and  chimneys  in  a  dreadful  way.  I 
never  knew  a  wilder  night." 

"  You  saw  the  general  at  the  party  ?"  said  one, 
addressing  Mr.  Craig. 

"  Yes,  a  few  times.  But  there  was  a  crowd  in  all 
the  rooms,  and  the  same  people  were  not  often 
thrown  together." 

"  Nothing  unusual  about  him  ?  Hadn't  been  drink 
ing  too  much  ?" 

"  Not  when  I  observed  him.  But — "  Mr.  Craig 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went  on :  "  But  there's 
one  thing  has  a  strange  look.  They  went  in  a  car- 

16 


170         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

riage,  I  know,  but  walked  home  in  all  that  dreadful 
storm." 

"  Walked  home !"  Several  pairs  of  eyes  and 
hands  were  upraised. 

"  Yes ;  they  came  to  the  door,  white  with  snow, 
just  as  we  got  home." 

"  How  strange  !     What  could  it  have  meant  ?" 

"  It  meant,"  said  one,  "  that  their  carriage  disap 
pointed  them — nothing  else,  of  course." 

"  That  will  hardly  explain  it.  Such  disappoint 
ments  rarely,  if  ever,  occur,"  was  replied  to  this. 
"  Did  you  say  anything  to  them,  Mr.  Craig  ?" 

"  My  wife  did,  but  received  only  a  gruff  response 
from  the  general.  Mrs.  Abercrombie  made  no  reply, 
but  .went  hastily  after  her  husband.  There  was 
something  unusual  in  the  manner  of  both." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  General 
Abercrombie  and  his  wife  stood  in  the  hall,  she  try 
ing,  but  in  vain,  to  persuade  him  not  to  go  out. 
He  said  but  little,  answering  her  kindly,  but  with  a 
marked  decision  of  manner.  Mrs.  Abercrombie* 
went  up  slowly  to  their  room  after  he  left  her,  walk 
ing  as  one  who  carried  a  heavy  load.  She  looked 
ten  years  older  than  on  the  day  previous. 

No  one  saw  her  during  the  morning.  At  dinner 
time  their  places  were  vacant  at  the  table. 

"  Where  are  the  general  and  his  wife  ?"  was  asked 
as  time  passed  and  they  did  not  make  their  appear 
ance. 

No  one  had  seen  either  of  them  since  breakfast 


Wounded  in  the  Housf  of  a  Friend.         \"J\ 

Mrs.  Craig  knew  that  Mrs.  Abercrombie  nad  not 
been  out  of  her  room  all  the  morning,  but  she  did 
not  feel  inclined  to  take  part  in  the  conversation,  anc 
so  said  nothing. 

"  1  saw  the  general  going  into  the  Clarendon 
about  two  o'clock,"  said  a  gentleman.  "  He's  dining 
with  some  friend,  most  probably." 

"  I  hear,"  remarked  another,  "that  he  acted  rather 
strangely  a*-  Mr.  Birtwell's  last  night." 

Every  ear  pricked  up  at  this. 

"  How  ?"  "  In  what  way  ?"  "  Tell  us  about  it," 
came  in  quick  response  to  the  speaker's  words. 

"  I  didn't  get  anything  like  a  clear  story.  But 
there  was  some  trouble  about  his  wife." 

"  About  his  wife  ?"  Faces  looked  eagerly  down 
and  across  the  table. 

"  What  about  his  wife  ?"  came  from  half  a  dozen 
lips. 

"  He  thought  some  one  too  intimate  with  her,  I 
believe.  A  brother  officer,  if  I  am  not  mistaken. 
Some  old  flame,  perhaps.  But  I  couldn't  learn  any 
of  the  particulars." 

"Ah!  That  accounts  for  their  singular  conduct 
this  morning.  Was  there  much  of  a  row?"  This 
came  from  a  thin-visaged  young  man  with  eye 
glasses  and  a  sparse,  whitish  moustache. 

"  I  didn't  say  anything  about  a  row,"  was  the 
rather  sharp  reply.  "  I  only  said  that  I  heard  that 
the  general  had  acted  strangely,  and  that  there  had 
seen  some  trouble  about  his  wife." 


1/2         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

".What  was  the  trouble  ?"  asked  two  or  three 
anxious  voices — anxious  for  some  racy  scandal. 

"  Couldn't  learn  any  of  the  particulars,  only  that 
he  took  his  wife  from  a  gentleman's  arm  in  a  rude 
kind  of  way,  and  left  the  party." 

"  Oh  !  that  accounts  for  their  not  coming  home  in 
a  carriage,"  broke  in  one  of  the  listeners. 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  who  said  they  didn't  ride 
home  ?" 

"  Mr.  Craig.  He  and  Mrs.  Craig  saw  them  as 
they  came  to  the  door,  covered  with  snow.  They 
were  walking." 

"  Oh,  you  were  at  the  party,  Mr.  Craig  ?  Did  you 
see  or  hear  anything  about  this  affair  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Craig.  "  If  there  had 
been  any  trouble,  I  should  most  likely  have  heard 
something  of  it." 

"  I  had  my  information  from  a  gentleman  who  was 
there,"  said  the  other. 

"  I  don't  question  that,"  replied  Mr.  Craig.  "  A 
trifling  incident  but  half  understood  will  often  give 
rise  to  exaggerated  reports — so  exaggerated  that 
but  little  of  the  original  truth  remains  in  them.  The 
general  may  have  done  something  under  the  excite 
ment  of  wine  that  gave  color  to  the  story  now  in 
circulation.  I  think  that  very  possible.  But  I  don't 
believe  the  affair  to  be  half  so  bad  as  represented." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  Mrs.  Aber- 
crombie  sat  alone  in  her  room.  She  had  walked 
the  floor  restlessly  as  the  time  drew  near  for  the 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         173 

general's  return,  but  after  the  hour  went  by,  and 
there  was  no  sign  of  his  coming,  all  the  life  seemed 
to  go  out  of  her.  She  was  sitting  now,  or  rather 
crouching  down,  in  a  large  cushioned  chair,  her  face 
white  and  still  and  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  kind  of  fright 
ened  stare. 

Time  passed,  but  she  remained  so  motionless  that 
but  for  her  wide-open  eyes  you  would  have  thought 
her  asleep  or  dead. 

No  one  intruded  upon  her  during  the  brief  after 
noon  ;  and  when  darkness  shut  in,  she  was  still  sit 
ting  where  she  had  dropped  down  nerveless  from 
mental  pain.  After  it  grew  dark  Mrs.  Abercrombie 
arose,  lighted  the  gas  and  drew  the  window  cur 
tains.  She  then  moved  about  the  room  putting 
things  in  order.  Next  she  changed  her  dress  and 
gave  some  careful  attention  to  her  personal  appear 
ance.  The  cold  pallor  which  had  been  on  her  face  all 
the  afternoon  gave  way  to  a  faint  tinge  of  color,  her 
eyes  lost  their  stony  fixedness  and  became  restless 
and  alert.  But  the  trouble  did  not  go  out  of  her 
face  or  eyes  ;  it  was  only  more  active  in  expression, 
more  eager  and  expectant. 

After  all  the  changes  in  her  toilette  had  been 
made,  Mrs.  Abercrombie  sat  down  again,  waiting  and 
listening.  It  was  the  general's  usual  time  to  come 
home  from  headquarters.  How  would  he  come  ? 
or  would  he  come  at  all  ?  These  were  the  ques 
tions  that  agitated  her  soul.  The  sad,  troubled, 
humiliating,  suffering  past,  how  its  records  of  sorrow 

16* 


174         \Voiindcd  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

and  shame  and  fear  kept  unrolling  themselves  before 
her  eyes !  There  was  little  if  anything  in  these 
records  to  give  hope  or  comfort.  Ah !  how  many 
times  had  he  fallen  from  his  high  estate  of  manhood, 
each  time  sinking  lower  and  lower,  and  each  time 
recovering  himself  from  the  fall  with  greater  dif 
ficulty  than  before !  He  might  never  rise  again. 
The  chances  were  largely  against  him. 

How  the  wretched  woman  longed  for  yet  dreaded 
the  return  of  her  husband !  If  he  had  been  drink 
ing  again,  as  she  feared,  there  was  before  her  a  night 
of  anguish  and  terror — a  night  which  might  have 
for  her  no  awaking  in  the  world.  But  she  had  learned 
to  dread  some  things  more  than  death. 

Time  wore  on  until  it  was  past  the  hour  for  Gene 
ral  Abercrombie's  return,  and  yet  there  was  no  sign 
of  his  coming.  At  last  the  loud  clang  of  the  sup 
per-bell  ringing  through  the  halls  gave  her  a  sudden 
start.  She  clasped  her  hands  across  her  forehead, 
while  a  look  of  anguish  convulsed  her  face,  then 
held  them  tightly  against  her  heart  and  groaned 
aloud. 

"  God  pity  us  both !"  she  cried,  in  a  low,  wailing 
voice,  striking  her  hands  together  and  lifting  upward 
her  eyes,  that  were  full  of  the  deepest  anguish. 

For  a  few  moments  her  eyes  were  upraised.  Then 
her  head  sunk  forward  upon  her  bosom,  and  she  sat 
an  image  of  helpless  despair. 

A  knock  at  the  door  roused  her.  She  started  to 
her  feet  and  opened  it  with  nervous  haste. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         175 

"  A  letter  for  you,"  said  a  servant. 

She  took  it  from  his  hand  and  shut  and  locked 
the  door  before  examining  the  handwriting  on  the 
envelope.  It  was  that  of  her  husband.  She  tore  it 
open  with  trembling  hand  and  read : 

"  DEAR  EDITH  :  An  order  requiring  my  presence 
in  Washington  to-morrow  morning  has  just  reached 
me,  and  I  have  only  time  to  make  the  train.  I  shall 
be  gone  two  or  three  days." 

The  deep  flush  which  excitement  had  spread  over 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Abercrombie  faded  off,  and  the 
deadly  pallor  returned.  Her  hands  shook  so  that 
the  letter  dropped  out  of  them  and  fell  to  the  floor. 
Another  groan  as  of  a  breaking  heart  sobbed  through 
her  lips  as  she  threw  herself  in  despairing  abandon 
ment  across  the  bed  and  buried  her  face  deep  among 
the  pillows. 

She  needed  no  interpreter  to  unfold  the  true  mean 
ing  of  that  letter.  Its  unsteady  and  blotted  words 
and  its  scrawled,  uncertain  signature  told  her  too 
well  of  her  husband's  sad  condition.  His  old  enemy 
had  stricken  him  down,  his  old  strong,  implacable 
enemy,  always  armed,  always  lying  in  wait  for  him, 
and  always  ready  for  the  unguarded  moment. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DOCTOR  HILLHOUSE  was  in  his  office  one 
morning  when  a  gentleman  named  Carlton,  in 
whose  family  he  had  practiced  for  two  or  three  years, 
came  in.  This  was  a  few  weeks  before  the  party  at 
Mr.  Birtwell's. 

"  Doctor" — there  was  a  troubled  look  on  his  vis 
itor's  face — "  I  wish  you  would  call  in  to-day  and 
examine  a  lump  on  Mrs.  Carlton's  neck.  It's  been 
coming  for  two  or  three  months.  We  thought  it 
only  the  swelling  of  a  gland  at  first,  and  expected  it 
to  go  away  in  a  little  while.  But  in  the  last  few 
weeks  it  has  grown  perceptibly." 

"  How  large  is  it  ?"  inquired  the  doctor. 

"  About  the  size  of  a  pigeon's  egg." 

"  Indeed !     So  large  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  am  beginning  to  feel  very  much  con 
cerned  about  it." 

"  Is  there  any  discoloration  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Any  soreness  or  tenderness  to  the  touch  ?" 

"  No ;  but  Mrs.  Carlton  is  beginning  to  feel  a 
sense  of  tightness  and  oppression,  as  though  the 
lump,  whatever  it  may  be,  were  beginning  to  press 
•jpon  some  of  the  blood-vessels." 

"  Nothing  serious,  I   imagine,"  replied  Dr.  Hill- 

176 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         1 77 

house,  speaking  with  a  lightness  of  manner  he  did 
not  feel.  "  I  will  call  about  twelve  o'clock.  Tell 
Mrs.  Carlton  to  expect  me  at  that  time." 

Mr.  Carlton  made  a  movement  to  go,  but  came 
back  from  the  door,  and  betraying  more  anxiety  of 
manner  than  at  first,  said : 

"  This  may  seem  a  light  thing  in  your  eyes,  doc 
tor,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  troubled.  I  am  afraid 
of  a  tumor." 

"What  is  the  exact  location?"  asked  Dr.  Hill- 
house. 

"  On  the  side  of  the  neck,  a  little  back  from  the 
lower  edge  of  the  right  ear." 

The  doctor  did  not  reply.  After  a  brief  silence 
Mr.  Carlton  said : 

"  Do  you  think  it  a  regular  tumor,  doctor  ?" 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say.  I  can  speak  with  more 
certainty  after  I  have  made  an  examination,"  re 
plied  Doctor  Hillhouse,  his  manner  showing  some 
reserve. 

"  If  it  should  prove  to  be  a  tumor,  cannot  its 
growth  be  stopped?  Is  there  no  relief  except 
through  an  operation — no  curative  agents  that  will 
restore  a  healthy  action  to  the  parts  and  cause  the 
tumor  to  be  absorbed  ?" 

"  There  is  a  class  of  tumors,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"that  may  be  absorbed,  but  the  treatment  is  preju 
dicial  to  the  general  health,  and  no  wise  physician 
will.  I  think,  resort  to  it  instead  of  a  surgical  oper 
ation,  which  is  usually  simple  and  safe." 

M 


178         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Much  depends  on  the  location  of  a  tumor,"  said 
Mr.  Carlton.  "The  extirpation  may  be  safe  and 
easy  if  the  operation  be  in  one  place,  and  difficult 
and  dangerous  if  in  another." 

"  It  is  the  surgeon's  business  to  do  his  work  so 
well  that  danger  shall  not  exist  in  any  case,"  replied 
Doctor  Hillhouse. 

"  I  shall  trust  her  in  your  hands,"  said  Mr.  Carl- 
ton,  trying  to  assume  a  cheerful  air.  "  But  I  cannor 
help  feeling  nervous  and  extremely  anxious." 

"  You  are,  of  course,  over-sensitive  about  evei  y- 
thing  that  touches  one  so  dear  as  your  wife,"  replied 
the  doctor.  "  But  do  not  give  yourself  needless 
anxiety.  Tumors  in  the  neck  are  generally  of  the 
kind  known  as  '  benignant,'  and  are  easily  removed." 

Dr.  Angier  came  into  the  office  while  they  were 
talking,  and  heard  a  part  of  the  conversation.  As 
soon  as  Mr.  Carlton  had  retired  he  asked  if  the 
tumor  were  deep-seated  or  only  a  wen-like  protu 
berance. 

"  Deep-seated,  I  infer,  from  what  Mr.  Carlton  said," 
replied  Dr.  Hillhouse. 

"  What  is  her  constitution  ?" 

"  Not  as  free  from  a  scrofulous  tendency  as  I  should 
like." 

"  Then  this  tumor,  if  it  should  really  prove  to  be 
one,  may  be  of  a  malignant  character." 

"  That  is  possible.  But  I  trust  to  find  only  a 
simple  cyst,  or,  at  the  worst,  an  adipose  or  fibrous 
tumor  easy  of  removal,  though  I  aui  sorry  it  is  in 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         179 

the  neck.     I  never  like  to  cut  in  among  the  large 
blood-vessels  and  tendons  of  that  region." 

At  twelve  o'clock  Doctor  Hillhouse  made  the 
promised  visit.  He  found  Mrs.  Carlton  to  all  ap 
pearance  quiet  and  cheerful. 

"  My  husband  is  apt  to  worry  himself  when  any 
thing  ails  me,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

The  doctor  took  her  hand  and  felt  a  low  tremor 
of  the  nerves  that  betrayed  the  nervous  anxiety  she 
was  trying  hard  to  conceal.  His  first  diagnosis  was 
not  satisfactory,  and  he  was  not  able  wholly  to  con 
ceal  his  doubts  from  the  keen  observation  of  Mr. 
Carllon,  whose  eyes  never  turned  for  a  moment  from 
the  doctor's  lace.  The  swelling  was  clearly  out 
lined,  but  neither  sharp  nor  protuberant.  From  the 
manner  of  its  presentation,  and  also  from  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Carlton  complained  of  a  feeling  of  pressure 
on  the  vessels  of  the  neck,  the  doctor  feared  the 
tumor  was  larger  and  more  deeply  seated  than  the 
lady's  friends  had  suspected.  But  he  was  most  con 
cerned  as  to  its  true  character.  Being  hard  and 
nodulated,  he  feared  that  it  might  prove  to  be  of  a 
malignant  type,  and  his  apprehensions  were  increased 
by  the  fact  that  his  patient  had  in  her  constitution  a 
taint  of  scrofula.  There  was  no  apparent  conges 
tion  of  the  veins  nor  discoloration  of  the  skin  around 
the  hard  protuberance,  no  pulsation,  elasticity,  fluc 
tuation  or  soreness,  only  a  solid  lump  which  the 
doctor's  sensitive  touch  recognized  as  the  small  sec 
tion  or  lobule  of  a  deeply-seated  tumor  already 


1 80         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

beginning  to  press  upon  and  obstruct  the  blood 
vessels  in  its  immediate  vicinity.  Whether  it  were 
fibrous  or  albuminous,  "benignant"  or  "malignant," 
he  was  not  able  in  his  first  diagnosis  to  deter 
mine. 

Dr.  Hillhouse  could  not  so  veil  his  face  as  to  hide 
from  Mr.  Carlton  the  doubt  and  concern  that  were 
in  his  mind. 

"  Deal  with  me  plainly,"  said  the  latter  as  he 
stood  alone  with  the  doctor  after  the  examination 
was  over.  "  I  want  the  exact  truth.  Don't  conceal 
anything." 

Mr.  Carlton's  lips  trembled. 

"  Is  it  a — a  tumor  ?"  He  got  the  words  out  in  a 
low,  shaky  voice. 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Doctor  Hillhouse.  He  saw 
the  face  of  Mr.  Carlton  blanch  instantly. 

"  It  presents,"  added  the  doctor,  "  all  the  indica 
tions  of  what  we  call  a  fibrous  tumor." 

"  Is  it  of  a  malignant  type  ?"  asked  Mr.  Carlton, 
with  suspended  breath. 

"No;  these  tumors  are  harmless  in  themselves, 
but  their  mechanical  pressure  on  surrounding  blood 
vessels  and  tissues  renders  their  removal  necessary." 

Mr  Carlton  caught  his  breath  with  a  sigh  of  re 
lief. 

"  Is  their  removal  attended  with  danger  ?"  he 
%sked. 

"  None,"  replied  Dr.  Hillhouse. 

"  Have  you  ever  taken  a  tumor  from  the  neck  ?" 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         iS'l 

"Yes.  I  have  operated  in  cases  of  this  kind 
often." 

"  Were  you  always  successful  ?" 

"  Yes ;  in  every  instance." 

Mr.  Carl  ton  breathed  more  freely.  After  a  pause, 
he  said,  his  lips  growing  white  as  he  spoke: 

"There  will  have  to  be  an  operation  in  this 
case  ?" 

"  It  cannot,  I  fear,  be  avoided,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  There  is  one  comfort,"  said  Mr.  Carlton,  rallying 
and  speaking  in  a  more  cheerful  voice.  "The  tumor 
is  small  and  superficial  in  character.  The  knife  will 
not  have  to  go  very  deep  among  the  veins  and 
arteries." 

Doctor  Hillhouse  did  not  correct  his  error. 

"  How  long  will  it  take  ?"  queried  the  anxious  hus 
band,  to  whom  the  thought  of  cutting  down  into 
the  tender  flesh  of  his  wife  was  so  painful  that  it 
completely  unmanned  him. 

*'  Not  very  long,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"Ten  minutes?" 

"  Yes,  or  maybe  a  little  longer." 

"  She  will  feel  no  pain  ?" 

"  None." 

"  Nor  be  conscious  of  what  you  are  doing  ?" 

"  She  will  be  as  much  in  oblivion  as  a  sleeping  in 
fant."  replied  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Carlton  turned  from  Dr.  Hillhouse  and  walked 
the  whole  length  of  the  parlor  twice,  then  stood 
still,  and  said,  with  painful  impressiveness : 

16 


1 82         Wounded  in  tJie  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  Doctor,  I  place  her  in  your  hands.  She  is  ready 
for  anything  we  may  decide  upon  as  best." 

He  stopped  and  turned  partly  away  to  hide  his 
feelings.  But  recovering  himself,  and  forcing  a 
smile  to  his  lips,  he  said : 

"  To  your  professional  eyes  I  show  unmanly  weak 
ness.  But  you  must  bear  in  mind  how  very  dear 
she  is  to  me.  It  makes  me  shiver  in  every  nerve  to 
think  of  the  knife  going  down  into  her  tender  flesh. 
You  might  cut  me  to  pieces,  doctor,  if  that  would 
save  her." 

"  Your  fears  exaggerate  everything,"  returned 
Doctor  Hillhouse,  in  an  assuring  voice.  "  She  will 
go  into  a  tranquil  sleep,  and  while  dreaming  pleasant 
dreams  we  will  quickly  dissect  out  the  tumor,  and 
leave  the  freed  organs  to  continue  their  healthy 
action  under  the  old  laws  of  unobstructed  life." 

"  When  ought  it  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Mr.  Carlton, 
the  tremor  coming  back  into  his  voice. 

"  The  sooner,  the  better,  after  an  operation  is  de 
cided  upon,"  answered  the  doctor.  "  I  will  make 
another  examination  in  about  two  weeks.  The 
changes  that  take  place  in  that  time  will  help  me 
to  a  clearer  decision  than  it  is  possible  to  arrive  at 
now." 

After  a  lapse  of  two  weeks  Doctor  Hillhouse,  in 
company  with  another  surgeon,  made  a  second  ex 
amination.  What  his  conclusions  were  will  appear 
in  the  following  conversation  held  with  Dr.  Angier. 

"  The   tumor  is   not  of  a  malignant   character," 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         183 

Doctor  Hillhouse  replied,  in  answer  to  his  assist 
ant's  inquiry.  "  But  it  is  larger  than  I  at  first  sus 
pected,  and  is  growing  very  rapidly.  From  a  slight 
suffusion  of  Mrs.  Carlton's  face  which  I  did  not 
observe  at  any  previous  visit,  it  is  evident  that  the 
tumor  is  beginning  to  press  upon  the  carotids. 
Serious  displacements  of  blood-vessels,  nerves, 
glands  and  muscles  must  soon  occur  if  this  growth 
goes  on." 

"  Then  her  life  is  in  danger  ?"  said  Dr.  Angler. 

"  It  is  assuredly,  and  nothing  but  a  successful  op 
eration  can  save  her." 

"  What  does  Doctor  Kline  think  of  the  case?" 

"  He  agrees  with  me  as  to  the  character  of  the 
tumor,  but  thinks  it  larger  than  an  orange,  deeply 
cast  among  the  great  blood-vessels,  and  probably  so 
attached  to  their  sheaths  as  to  make  its  extirpation 
not  only  difficult,  but  dangerous." 

"  Will  he  assist  you  in  the  operation  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Dr.  Hillhouse  became  thoughtful  and  silent.  His 
countenance  wore  a  serious,  almost  troubled  aspect. 

44  Never  before,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause, 
"  have  I  looked  forward  to  an  operation  with  such 
a  feeling  of  concern  as  I  look  forward  to  this.  Three 
or  four  months  ago,  when  there  was  only  a  little 
sack  there,  it  could  have  been  removed  without  risk. 
But  I  greatly  fear  that  in  its  rapid  growth  it  has 
become  largely  attached  to  the  blood-vessels  and 
the  sheaths  of  nerves,  and  you  know  how  difficult 


184         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

this  will  make  the  operation,  and  that  the  risk  wiL 
be  largely  increased.  The  fact  is,  doctor,  I  am  free 
to  say  that  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  me  if 
some  other  surgeon  had  the  responsibility  of  this 
case." 

"  Dr.  Kline  would,  no  doubt,  be  very  ready  to 
take  it  off  of  your  hands." 

"  If  the  family  were  satisfied,  I  would  cheerfully 
delegate  the  work  to  him,"  said  Doctor  Hillhouse. 
"  He's  a  younger  man,  and  his  recent  brilliant  opera 
tions  have  brought  him  quite  prominently  before  the 
public." 

As  he  spoke  Doctor  Hillhouse,  who  was  past 
sixty-five  and  beginning  to  feel  the  effects  of  over 
forty  years  of  earnest  professional  labor,  lifted  his 
small  hand,  the  texture  of  which  was  as  fine  as  that 
of  a  woman's,  and  holding  it  up,  looked  at  it  steadily 
for  some  moments.  It  trembled  just  a  little. 

"  Not  quite  so  firm  as  it  was  twenty  years  ago," 
he  remarked,  with  a  slight  depression  in  his  voice. 

44  But  the  sight  is  clearer  and  the  skill  greater," 
said  Doctor  Angier. 

44 1  don't  know  about  the  sight,"  returned  Doctor 
Hillhouse.  "  I'm  afraid  that  is  no  truer  than  the 
hand." 

44  The  inner  sight,  I  mean,  the  perception  that 
comes  from  long-applied  skill,"  said  Doctor  Angier. 
14  That  is  something  in  which  you  have  the  advan 
tage  of  younger  men." 

Doctor  Hillhouse  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  sat 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         185 

like  one  in  deep  and  perplexed  thought  for  a  consid 
erable  time. 

"  I  must  see  Doctor  Kline  and  go  over  the  case 
with  him  more  carefully/'  he  remarked  at  length. 
"  I  shall  then  be  able  to  see  with  more  clearness 
what  is  best.  The  fact  that  I  feel  so  averse  to  op 
erating  myself  comes  almost  like  a  warning;  and  »f 
no  change  should  occur  in  my  feelings,  I  shall,  with 
the  consent  of  the  family,  transfer  the  knife  to  Doc 
tor  Kline." 

16  • 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

MRS.  CARLTON  was  a  favorite  in  the  circle 
where  she  moved;  and  when  it  became  known 
that  she  would  have  to  submit  to  a  serious  operation 
in  order  to  save  her  life,  she  became  an  object  of 
painful  interest  to  her  many  friends.  Among  the 
most  intimate  of  these  was  Mrs.  Birtwell,  who,  as 
the  time  approached  for  the  great  trial,  saw  her 
almost  every  day. 

It  was  generally  understood  that  Doctor  Hill- 
house,  who  was  the  family  physician,  would  perform 
the  operation.  For  a  long  series  of  years  he  had 
held  the  first  rank  as  a  surgeon.  But  younger  men 
were  coming  forward  in  the  city,  and  other  reputa 
tions  were  being  made  that  promised  to  be  even 
more  notable  than  his. 

Among  those  who  were  steadly  achieving  success 
in  the  walks  of  surgery  was  Doctor  Kline,  now  over 
thirty-five  years  of  age.  He  held  a  chair  in  one  of 
the  medical  schools,  and  his  name  was  growing  more 
and  more  familiar  to  the  public  and  the  profession 
every  year. 

The  friends  of  Mrs.  Carlton  were  divided  on  the 
question  as  to  who  could  best  perform  the  operation, 
some  favoring  Doctor  Kline  and  some  Doctor  Hill- 

186 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         187 

house.  The  only  objection  urged  by  any  one  agairist 
the  latter  was  on  account  of  his  age. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlton  had  no  doubt  or  hesitation 
on  the  subject.  Their  confidence  in  the  skill  of 
Doctor  Hillhouse  was  complete.  As  for  Doctor 
Kline,  Mr.  Carlton,  who  met  him  now  and  then  at 
public  dinners  or  at  private  social  entertainments, 
had  not  failed  to  observe  that  he  was  rather  free  in 
his  use  of  liquor,  drinking 'so  frequently  on  these 
occasions  as  to  produce  a  noticeable  exhilaration. 
Tie  had  even  remarked  upon  the  fact  to  gentlemen 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  found  that  others  had  no 
ticed  this  weakness  of  Doctor  Kline  as  well  as  him 
self. 

As  time  wore  on  Doctor  Hillhouse  grew  more 
and  more  undecided.  No  matter  how  grave  or  dif 
ficult  an  operation  might  be,  he  had  always,  when 
satisfied  of  its  necessity,  gone  forward,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  But  so  troubled 
and  uncertain  did  he  become  as  the  necessity  for 
fixing  an  early  day  for  the  removal  of  this  tumor 
became  more  and  more  apparent  that  he  at  last 
referred  the  whole  matter  to  Mr.  Carlton,  and  pro 
posed  that  Doctor  Kline,  whose  high  reputation  for 
surgical  skill  he  knew,  should  be  entrusted  with 
the  operation.  To  this  he  received  an  emphatic 
"No!" 

"  All  the  profession  award  him  the  highest  skill  in 
our  city,  if  not  the  whole  country,"  said  Doctor 
Hillhouse. 


1 88         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  his  skill,"  replied  Mr.  Carl 
ten.     "  But—" 

"  What  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  as  Mr.  Carlton  hesi 
tated. 

"  Are  you  not  aware  that  he  uses  wine  too  freely  ?" 

Doctor  Hillhouse  was  taken  by  surprise  at  this 
intimation. 

"  No,  I  am  not  aware  of  anything  of  the  kind,"  he 
replied,  almost  indignantly.  "  He  is  not  a  teetotal 
ler,  of  course,  any  more  than  you  or  I.  Socially  and 
at  dinner  he  takes  his  glass  of  wine,  as  we  do.  But 
to  say  that  he  uses  liquor  too  freely  is,  I  am  sure, 
a  mistake." 

"  Some  men,  as  you  know,  doctor,  cannot  use 
wine  without  a  steady  increase  of  the  appetite  until 
it  finally  gets  the  mastery,  and  I  am  afraid  Doctor 
Kline  is  one  of  them." 

"  I  am  greatly  astonished  to  hear  you  say  this," 
replied  Dr.  Hillhouse,  "  and  I  cannot  but  hold  you 
mistaken." 

"  Have  you  ever  met  him  at  a  public  dinner,  at 
the  club  or  at  a  private  entertainment  where  there 
was  plenty  of  wine  ?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  And  observed  no  unusual  exhilaration  ?" 

Dr.  Hillhouse  became  reflective.  Now  that  his 
attention  was  called  to  the  matter,  some  doubts 
began  to  intrude  themselves. 

"  We  cannot  always  judge  the  common  life  by 
what  we  see  on  convivial  occasions,"  he  made 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        189 

answer.  "  One  may  take  wine  freely  with  his  friends 
and  be  as  abstemious  as  an  anchorite  during  busi 
ness-  or  profession-hours." 

"Not  at  all  probable,"  replied  Mr.  Carlton,  "and 
not  good  in  my  observation.  The  appetitt  that 
leads  a  man  into  drinking  more  when  among  friends 
than  his  brain  will  carry  steadily  is  not  likely  to 
sleep  when  he  is  alone.  Any  over-stimulation,  as 
you  know,  doctor,  leaves  in  the  depressed  state  that 
follows  a  craving  for  renewed  exhilaration.  I  am 
very  sure  that  on  the  morning  after  one  of  the  occa 
sions  to  which  I  have  referred  Doctor  Kline  finds 
himself  in  no  condition  for  the  work  of  a  delicate 
surgical  operation  until  he  has  steadied  his  relaxed 
nerves  with  more  than  a  single  glass." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with 
strong  emphasis : 

"  The  hand,  Doctor  Hillhouse,  that  cuts  down 
into  her  dear  flesh  must  be  steadied  by  healthy 
nerves,  and  not  by  wine  or  brandy.  No,  sir;  I  will 
not  hear  to  it.  I  will  not  have  Doctor  Kline.  In 
your  hands,  and  yours  alone,  I  trust  my  wife  in  this 
great  extremity." 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide,"  returned  Dr.  Hill- 
house.  "  I  felt  it  to  be  only  right  to  give  you  an  op 
portunity  to  avail  of  Doctor  Kline's  acknowledged 
skill.  I  am  sure  you  can  do  so  safely." 

But  Mr.  Carlton  was  very  emphatic  in  his  rejec 
tion  of  Dr.  Kline. 

"  I  may  be  a  little  peculiar,"  he  said,  "  but  do  you 


190        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

know  I  never  trust  any  important  interest  \vith  a 
man  who  drinks  habitually? — one  of  your  temperate 
drinkers,  I  mean,  who  can  take  his  three  or  four 
glasses  of  wine  at  dinner,  or  twice  that  n umbel 
during  an  evening  while  playing  at  whist,  but  who 
never  debases  himself  by  so  low  a  thing  as  intoxica 
tion." 

"Are  not  you  a  little  peculiar,  or,  I  might  say, 
over-nice,  in  this  ?"  remarked  Doctor  Hillhouse. 

"  No,  I  am  only  prudent.  Let  me  give  you  a 
fact  in  my  own  experience.  I  had  a  law-suit  several 
years  ago  involving  many  thousands  of  dollars.  My 
case  was  good,  but  some  nice  points  of  law  were 
involved,  and  I  needed  for  success  the  best  talent 

the  bar  afforded.  A  Mr.  B ,  I  will  call  him, 

stood  very  high  in  the  profession,  and  I  chose  him 
for  my  counsel.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  social  quali 
ties,  and  admirable  for  his  after-dinner  speeches. 
You  always  met  him  on  public  occasions.  He  was 
one  of  your  good  temperate  drinkers,  and  not  afraid 
of  a  glass  of  wine,  or  even  brandy,  and  rarely,  if 
ever,  refused  a  friend  who  asked  him  to  drink. 

"  He  was  not  an  intemperate  man,  of  course.  No 
one  dreamed  of  setting  him  over  among  that  banned 
and  rejected  class  of  men  whom  few  trust,  and 
against  whom  all  are  on  guard.  He  held  his  place 
of  honor  and  confidence  side  by  side  with  the  most 
trusted  men  in  his  profession.  As  a  lawyer,  in 
terests  of  vast  magnitude  were  often  in  his  hands, 
3tnd  largely  depended  on  his  legal  sagacity,  clearness 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        191 

of  thought  and  sleepless  vigilance.  He  was  usually 
successful  in  his  cases. 

"  I  felt  my  cause  safe  in  his  hands — that  is,  as 
safe  as  human  care  and  foresight  could  majce  it. 
But  to  my  surprise  and  disappointment,  his  manage 
ment  of  the  case  on  the  day  of  trial  was  faulty  and 
blind.  I  had  gone  over  all  the  points  with  him 
carefully,  and  he  had  seemed  to  hold  them  with  a 
masterly  hand.  He  was  entirely  confident  of  success, 
and  so  was  I.  But  now  he  seemed  to  lose  his  grasp 
on  the  best  points  in  the  case,  and  to  bring  forward 
his  evidence  in  a  way  that,  in  my  view,  damaged 
instead  of  making  our  side  strong.  Still,  I  forced 
myself  to  think  that  he  knew  best  what  to  do,  and 
that  the  meaning  of  his  peculiar  tactics  would  soon 
become  apparent.  I  noticed,  as  the  trial  went  on, 

a  bearing  of  the  opposing  counsel  toward  Mr.  B 

that  appeared  unusual.  He  seemed  bent  on  annoying 
him  with  little  side  issues  and  captious  objections,  not 
so  much  showing  a  disposition  to  meet  him  squarely 
upon  the  simple  and  clearly  defined  elements  of  the 
case,  as  to  draw  him  away  from  them  and  keep 
them  as  far  out  of  sight  as  possible. 

"  In  this  he  was  successful.  Mr.  B seemed 

in  his  hands  more  like  a  bewildered  child  than 
a  strong,  clear-seeing  man.  When,  after  all  the 
evidence  was  in,  the  arguments  on  both  sides  were 
submitted  to  the  jury,  I  saw  with  alarm  that  Mr. 

B had  failed  signally.  His  summing  up  was 

weak  and  disjointed,  and  he  did  not  urge  with 


192          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

force  and  clearness  the  vital  points  in  the  case  on 
which  all  our  hopes  depended.  The  contrast  of  his 
closing  argument  with  that  of  the  other  side  was 
yery^great,  and  I  knew  when  the  jury  retired  from 
the  court-room  that  all  was  lost,  and  so  it  proved. 

"  It  was  clear  to  me  that  I  had  mistaken  my  man — 

that  Mr.  B 's  reputation  was  higher  than  his 

ability.  He  was  greatly  chagrined  at  the  result,  and 
urged  me  to  take  an  appeal,  saying  he  was  confident 
we  could  get  a  reversal  of  the  decision. 

"  While  yet  undecided  as  to  whether  I  would 
appeal  or  not,  a  friend  who  had  been  almost  as 
much  surprised  and  disappointed  at  the  result  of  the 
trial  as  I  was  came  to  me  in  considerable  excitement 
of  manner,  and  said: 

" '  I  heard  something  this  morning  that  will  sur 
prise  you,  I  think,  as  much  as  it  has  surprised  me. 
Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  there  was  some 
thing  strange  about  Mr.  B on  the  day  your  case 

was  tried  ?' 

"  '  Yes,'  I  replied,  '  it  has  often  occurred  to  me , 
and  the  more  I  think  about  it,  the  more  dissatisfied 
I  am  with  his  management  of  my  case.  He  is 
urging  me  to  appeal ;  but  should  I  do  so,  I  have 
pretty  well  made  up  my  mind  to  have  other  counsel.' 

" '  That  I  should  advise  by  all  means,'  returned 
my  friend. 

"'The  thought  has  come  once  or  twice/  said  I, 
'  that  there  might  have  been  false  play  in  the  case/ 

"  '  There  has  been/  returned  my  friend. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         193 

"  '  What !'  I  exclaimed.  '  False  play  ?  No,  no,  I 
will  not  believe  so  base  a  thing  of  Mr.  B-«— ^ — .' 

"'I  do  not  mean  false  play  on  his  part,'  replied 
my  friend.  '  Far  be  it  from  me  to  suggest  a  thought 
against  his  integrity  of  character.  No,  no !  I  be~ 
lieve  him  to  be  a  man  of  honor.  The  false  play, 
if  there  has  been  any,  has  been  against  him.' 

"  '  Against  him  ?'  I  could  but  respond,  with  increas 
ing  surprise.  Then  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  flashed 
into  my  mind. 

"  '  He  had  been  drinking  too  much  that  morning/ 
said  my  friend.  '  That  was  the  meaning  of  his 
strange  and  defective  management  of  the  case,  and 
of  his  confusion  of  ideas  when  he  made  his  closing 
argument  to  the  jury.' 

"  It  was  clear  to  me  now,  and  I  wondered  that  I 
had  not  thought  of  it  before.  '  But/  I  asked,  '  what 
has  this  to  do  with  foul  play  ?  You  don't  mean  to 
intimate  that  his  liquor  was  drugged  ?' 

" '  No.  The  liquor  was  all  right,  so  far  as  that 
goes/  he  replied.  *  The  story  I  heard  was  this.  It 
came  to  me  in  rather  a  curious  way.  I  was  in  the 
reading-room  at  the  League  this  morning  looking 
ov^r  a  city  paper,  when  I  happened  to  hear  your 
name  spoken  by  one  of  two  gentlemen  whp  sat  ^ 
little  behind  me  talking  in  a  confidential  way,  bvjt 
in  a  louder  key  than  they  imagined.  I  could  not 
help  hearing  what  they  saicj.  After  the  mention  of 
your  name  I  listened  with  close  attention,  and  four^d 
that  they  were  talking  abput  the  }aw-suit,  and  about 
17  v 


194         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Mr.    B in    connection    therewith.     "It   was    a 

sharp  game,"  one  of  them  said.  *'  How  was  it 
done  ?"  inquired  the  other. 

"  '  I  partially  held  my  breath/  continued  my  friend, 
'  so  as  not  to  lose  a  word.  "  Neatly  enough,"  was 
the  reply.  "  You  see  our  friend  the  lawyer  can't 
refuse  a  drink.  He's  got  a  strong  head,  and  can 
take  twice  as  much  as  the  next  man  without  show 
ing  it.  A  single  glass  makes  no  impression  on  him, 
unless  it  be  to  sharpen  him  up.  So  a  plan  was  laid 
to  get  half  a  dozen  glasses  aboard,  more  or  less, 
before  court  opened  on  the  morning  the  case  of 
Walker  vs.  Carlton  was  to  be  called.  But  not  will 
ing  to  trust  to  this,  we  had  a  wine-supper  for  his 
special  benefit  on  the  night  before,  so  as  to  break  his 
nerves  a  little  and  make  him  thirsty  next  morning. 

Well,  you  see,  the  thing  worked,  and  B drank 

his  bottle  or  two,  and  went  to  bed  pretty  mellow. 
Of  course  he  must  tone  up  in  the  morning  before 
leaving  home,  and  so  come  out  all  right.  He  would 
tone  up  a  little  more  on  his  way  to  his  office,  and 
then  be  all  ready  for  business  and  bright  as  a  new 
dollar.  This  would  spoil  all.  So  five  of  us  arranged 
to  meet  him  at  as  many  different  points  on  his  way 
down  town  and  ask  him  to  drink.  The  thing  worked 
like  a  charm.  We  got  six  glasses  into  him  before 
he  reached  his  office.  I  saw  as  soon  as  he  came  into 

Cpurt  that  it  was  a  gone  case  for  Carlton.     B 

lost  his  head.    And  so  it  proved.     We  had  an 
yictpry."  ' 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        195 

"  I  took  the  case  out  of  B 's  hands,"  said  Mr. 

Carlton,  "  and  gained  it  in  a  higher  court,  the  costs 
of  both  trials  falling  upon  the  other  side.  Since 
that  time,  Dr.  Hillhouse,  I  have  had  some  new 
views  on  the  subject  of  moderate  drinking,  as  it  is 
called." 

"  What  are  they  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  An  experience  like  this  set  me  to  thinking.  If, 
I  said  to  myself,  a  man  uses  wine,  beer  or  spirits 
habitually,  is  there  no  danger  that  at  some  time 
when  great  interests,  or  even  life  itself,  may  be  at 
stake,  a  glass  too  much  may  obscure  his  clear  intel 
lect  and  make  him  the  instrument  of  loss  or  disas 
ter  ?  I  pursued  the  subject,  and  as  I  did  so  was  led 
to  this  conclusion — that  society  really  suffers  more 
from  what  is  called  moderate  drinking  than  it  does 
from  out-and-out  drunkenness." 

"  Few  will  agree  with  you  in  that  conclusion," 
returned  Doctor  Hillhouse. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  Mr.  Carlton,  "  I  think 
that  most  people,  after  looking  at  the  subject  from 
the  right  standpoint,  will  see  it  as  I  do." 

"  Men  who  take  a  glass  of  wine  at  dinner  and 
drink  with  a  friend  occasionally,"  remarked  Doctor 
Hillhouse,  "  are  not  given  to  idleness,  waste  of  prop 
erty  and  abuse  and  neglect  of  their  families,  as  we 
find  to  be  the  case  with  common  drunkards.  They 
don't  fill  our  prisons  and  almshouses.  Their  wives 
and  children  do  not  go  to  swell  the  great  army  of 
beggars,  paupers  and  criminals.  I  fear,  my  friend, 


196         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

that   you  are  looking   through   the  wrong  end  of 
your  glass." 

"  No ;  my  glass  is  all  right  The  number  of 
drunken  men  and  women  in  the  land  is  small  com 
pared  to  the  number  who  drink  moderately,  and  very 
few  of  them  are  to  be  found  in  places  of  trust  or 
responsibility.  As  soon  as  a  man  is  known  to  be  a 
drunkard  society  puts  a  mark  on  him  and  sets  him 
aside.  If  he  is  a  physician,  health  and  life  are  no 
longer  entrusted  to  his  care ;  if  a  lawyer,  no  man 
will  give  an  important  case  into  his  hands.  A  ship 
owner  will  not  trust  him  with  his  vessel,  though  a 
more  skilled  navigator  cannot  be  found ;  and  he  may 
be  the  best  engineer  in  the  land,  yet  will  no  railroad 
or  steamship  company  trust  him  with  life  and  prop 
erty.  So  everywhere  the  drunkard  is  ignored. 
Society  will  not  trust  him,  and  he  is  limited  in  his 
power  to  do  harm. 

"  Not  so  with  your  moderate  drinkers.  They  fill 
our  highest  places  and  we  commit  to  their  care  our 
best  and  dearest  interests..  We  put  the  drunkard 
aside  because  we  know  he  cannot  be  trusted,  and 
give  to  moderate  drinkers,  a  sad  percentage  of  whom 
are  on  the  way  to  drunkenness,  our  unwavering  con 
fidence  They  sail  our  ships,  they  drive  our  engines, 
they  make  and  execute  our  laws,  they  take  our  lives 
in  their  hands  as  doctors  and  surgeons ;  we  trust  them 
to  defend  or  maintain  our  legal  rights,  we  confide  to 
them  our  interests  in  hundreds  of  different  ways 
that  we  would  never  dream  of  confiding  to  men  who 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         (97 

were  regarded  as  intemperate.  Is  it  not  fair  to  con 
clude,  knowing  as  we  do  how  a  glass  of  wine  too 
much  will  confuse  the  brain  and  obscure  the  judg 
ment,  that  society  in  trusting  its  great  army  of  mod 
erate  drinkers  is  suffering  loss  far  beyond  anything  we 
imagine  ?  A  doctor  loses  his  patient,  a  lawyer  his 
case,  an  engineer  wrecks  his  ship  or  train,  an  agent 
hurts  his  principal  by  a  loose  or  bad  bargain,  and 
all  because  the  head  had  lost  for  a  brief  space  its 
normal  clearness. 

"  Men  hurt  themselves  through  moderate  drinking 
in  thousands  of  ways,"  continued  Mr.  Carlton.  "  We 
have  but  to  think  for  a  moment  to  see  this.  Many 
a  fatal  document  has  been  signed,  many  a  disastrous 
contract  made,  many  a  ruinous  bargain  consummated, 
which  but  for  the  glass  of  wine  taken  at  the  wrong 
moment  would  have  been  rejected.  Men  under  the 
excitement  of  drink  often  enter  into  the  unwise 
schemes  of  designing  men  only  to  lose  heavily, 
and  sometimes  to  encounter  ruin.  The  gambler 
entices  his  victim  to  drink,  while  he  keeps  his  own 
head  clear.  He  knows  the  confusing  quality  of 
wine." 

"  You  make  out  rather  a  strong  case,"  said  Doc 
tor  Hillhouse. 

"  Too  strong,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  Looking  at  the  thing  through 
your  eyes,  Mr.  Carlton,  moderate  drinking  is  an 
evil  of  great  magnitude.'* 

"  It  is  assuredly,  and  far  greater,  as  I  have  said, 
17* 


198         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

than  is  generally  supposed.  The  children  of  this 
world  are  very  wise,  and  some  of  them,  I  am  sorry 
to  add,  very  unscrupulous  in  gaining  their  ends. 
They  know  the  power  of  all  the  agencies  that  are 
around  them,  and  do  not  scruple  to  make  use  of 
whatever  comes  to  their  hand.  Three  or  four  capi 
talists  are  invited  to  meet  at  a  gentleman's  house 
to  consider  some  proposition  he  has  to  lay  before 
them.  They  are  liberally  supplied  with  wine,  and 
drink  without  a  lurking  suspicion  of  what  the  service 
of  good  wine  means.  They  see  in  it  only  the  com 
mon  hospitality  of  the  day,  and  fail  to  notice  that 
one  or  two  of  the  company  never  empty  their 
glasses.  On  the  next  day  these  men  will  most 
likely  feel  some  doubt  as  to  the  prudence  of  certain 
large  subscriptions  made  on  the  previous  afternoon 
or  evening,  and  wonder  how  they  could  have  been 
so  infatuated  as  to  put  money  into  a  'scheme  that 
promised  little  beyond  a  permanent  investment. 

"  If,"  added  Mr.  Carlton,  "  we  could  come  at  any 
proximate  estimate  of  the  loss  which  falls  upon 
society  in  consequence  of  the  moderate  use  of  in 
toxicating  drinks,  we  would  find  that  it  exceeded  a 
hundred — nay,  a  thousand — fold  that  of  the  losses 
sustained  through  drunkenness.  Against  the  latter 
society  is  all  the  while  seeking  to  guard  itself, 
against  the  former  it  has  little  or  no  protection — • 
does  not,  in  fact,  comprehend  the  magnitude  of  its 
power  for  evil.  But  I  have  wearied  you  with  my 
talk,  and  forgotten  for  the  time  being  the  anxiety 


Woundea  tn  the  House  of  a  Friend.         199 

that  lies  so  near  my  heart.  No,  doctor,  I  will  not 
trust  the  hand  of  Doctor  Kline,  skillful  as  it  may  be, 
to  do  this  work ;  for  I  cannot  be  sure  that  a  glass 
too  much  may  not  have  been  taken  to  steady  the 
nerves  a  night's  excess  of  wine  may  have  left  un 
strung  " 

Doctor  Hillhouse  sat  with  closely  knit  brows  for 
some  time  after  Mr.  Carlton  ceased  speaking. 

"  There  is  matter  for  grave  consideration  in  what 
you  have  said,"  he  remarked,  at  length,  "though 
I  apprehend  your  fears  in  regard  to  Doctor  Kline 
are  more  conjectural  than  real." 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Carlton,  "but  as  a  pru 
dent  man  I  will  not  take  needless  risk  in  the  face 
of  danger.  If  an  operation  cannot  be  avoided,  I  will 
f  ust  that  precious  life  to  none  but  you." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WE  have  seen  how  it  was  with  Doctor  Hill- 
house  on  the  morning  of  the  day  fixed  for 
the  operation.  The  very  danger  that  Mr.  Carlton 
sought  to  avert  in  his  rejection  of  Doctor  Klme  was 
at  his  door.  Not  having  attended  the  party  at  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Birtwell's,  he  did  not  know  that  Doctor 
Hillhouse  had,  with  most  of  the  company,  indulged 
freely  in  wine.  If  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  had  come 
to  him,  he  would  have  refused  to  let  the  operation 
proceed.  But  like  a  passenger  in  some  swiftly- 
moving  car  who  has  faith  in  the  clear  head  and 
steady  hand  of  the  engineer,  his  confidence  in  Doc 
tor  Hillhouse  gave  him  a  feeling  of  security. 

But  far  from  this  condition  of  faith  in  himself  was 
the  eminent  surgeon  in  whom  he  was  reposing  his 
confidence.  He  had,  alas !  tarried  too  long  at  the 
feast  of  wine  and  fat  things  dispensed  by  Mr.  Birt- 
well,  and  in  his  effort  to  restore  the  relaxed  tension 
of  his  nerves  by  stimulation  had  sent  too  sudden  an 
impulse  to  his  brain,  and  roused  it  to  morbid  action. 
His  coffee  failed  to  soothe  the  unquiet  nerves,  his 
stomach  turned  from  the  food  on  which  he  had  de 
pended  for  a  restoration  of  the  equipoise  which  the 
night's  excesses  had  destroyed.  The  dangerous  con 
dition  of  Mrs.  Ridley  and  his  forced  visit  to  that 

200 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        20 1 

lady  in  the  early  morning,  when  he  should  have  been 
free  from  all  unusual  effort  and  excitement,  but  added 
to  his  disturbance. 

Doctor  Hillhouse  knew  all  about  the  previous  hab 
its  of  Mr.  Ridley,  and  was  much  interested  in  his  case. 
He  had  seen  with  hope  and  pleasure  the  steadiness 
with  which  he  was  leading  his  new  life,  and  was 
beginning  to  have  strong  faith  in  his  future.  But 
when  he  met  him  on  that  morning,  he  knew  by 
unerring  signs  that  the  evening  at  Mr.  Birrwell's 
had  been  to  him  one  of  debauch  instead  of  restrained 
conviviality.  The  extremity  of  his  wife's  condition, 
and  his  almost  insane  appeals  that  he  would  hold 
her  back  from  death,  shocked  still  further  the  doc 
tor's  already  quivering  nerves. 

The  imminent  peril  in  which  Doctor  Hillhouse 
found  Mrs.  Ridley  determined  him  to  call  in  another 
physician  for  consultation.  As  twelve  o'clock  on 
that  day  had  been  fixed  for  the  operation  on  Mrs. 
Carlton,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  get  his  mind 
as  free  as  possible  from  all  causes  of  anxiety  or 
excitement,  and  the  best  thing  in  this  extremity  was 
to  get  his  patient  into  the  hands  of  a  brother  in  the 
profession  who  could  relieve  him  temporarily  from 
all  responsibility,  and  watch  the  case  with  all  needed 
care  in  its  swiftly  approaching  crisis.  So  he  sent 
Doctor  Angier,  immediately  on  his  return  from  his 
visit  to  Mrs.  Ridley,  with  a  request  to  Doctor  Ains- 
worth,  a  physician  of  standing  and  experience,  to 
meet  him  in  consultation  at  ten  o'clock. 


2O2          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Precisely  at  ten  the  physicians  arrived  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Ridley,  and  were  admitted  by  that  gentleman, 
whose  pale,  haggard,  frightened  face  told  of  his 
anguish  and  alarm.  They  asked  him  no  questions, 
and  he  preceded  them  in  silence  to  the  chamber  of 
his  sick  wife.  It  needed  no  second  glance  at  their 
patient  to  tell  the  two  doctors  that  she  was  in  great 
extremity.  Her  pinched  face  was  ashen  in  color 
and  damp  with  a  cold  sweat,  and  her  eyes,  no  longer 
wild  and  restless,  looked  piteous  and  anxious,  as  of 
one  in  dreadful  suffering  who  pleaded  mutely  for 
help.  An  examination  of  her  pulse  showed  the  beat 
to  be  frequent  and  feeble,  and  on  the  slightest  move 
ment  she  gave  signs  of  pain.  Her  respiration  was 
short  and  very  rapid.  Mr.  Ridley  was  present,  and 
standing  in  a  position  that  enabled  him  to  observe 
the  faces  of  the  two  doctors  as  they  proceeded  with 
their  examination.  Hope  died  as  he  saw  the  sig 
nificant  changes  that  passed  over  them.  When  they 
left  the  sick-chamber,  he  left  also,  and  walked  the 
floor  anxiously  while  they  sat  in  consultation,  talk 
ing  together  in  low  tones.  Now  and  then  he  caught 
words,  such  as  "  peritoneum,"  "  lesion,"  "  perfora 
tion,"  etc.,  the  fatal  meaning  of  which  he  more  than 
half  guessed. 

They  were  still  in  consultation  when  a  sudden  cry 
broke  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Ridley ;  and  rising  has 
tily,  they  went  back  to  her  chamber.  Her  face  was 
distorted  and  her  body  writhing  with  pain. 

Doctor   Hillhouse  wrote   a   prescription   hastily. 


Wounded  in  the  house  of  a  Friend.         203 

saying  to  Mr.  Ridley  as  he  gave  it  to  him:  "Opium, 
and  get  it  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

The  sick  woman  had  scarcely  a  moment's  free 
dom  from  pain  of  a  most  excruciating  character  dur 
ing  the  ten  minutes  that  elapsed  before  her  husband's 
return.  The  quantity  of  opium  administered  was 
large,  and  its  effects  soon  apparent  in  a  gradual 
breaking  down  of  the  pains,  which  had  been  almost 
spasmodic  in  their  character. 

When  Doctor  Hillhouse  went  away,  leaving  Doc 
tor  Ainsworth  in  charge  of  his  patient,  she  was 
sinking  into  a  quiet  sleep.  On  arriving  at  his  office 
he  found  Mr.  Wilmer  Voss  impatiently  awaiting  his 
return. 

"  Doctor,"  said  this  gentleman,  starting  up  on 
seeing  him  and  showing  considerable  agitation,  "you 
must  come  to  my  wife  immediately." 

Doctor  Hillhouse  felt  stunned  for  an  instant.  He 
drew  his  hand  tightly  against  his  forehead,  that  was 
heavy  with  its  dull,  half-stupefying  pain,  which,  spite 
of  what  he  could  do,  still  held  on.  All  his  nerves 
were  unstrung. 

"  How  is  she  ?"  he  asked,  with  the  manner  of  one 
who  had  received  an  unwelcome  message.  His  hand 
was  still  held  against  his  forehead. 

"  She  broke  all  down  a  little  while  ago,  and  now 
lies  moaning  and  shivering.  Oh,  doctor,  come  right 
away !  You  know  how  weak  she  is.  This  dreadful 
«uspcnse  will  kill  her,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Have  you  no  word  of  Archie  yet  ?"  asked  Doc- 


2O4         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend, 

tor  Hillhouse  as  he  dropped  the  hand  he  had  been 
holding  against  his  forehead  and  temples. 

11  None  !     So  far,  we  are  without  a  sign." 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?" 

"  Everything  that  can  be  thought  of.  More  than 
twenty  of  our  friends,  in  concert  with  the  police,  are 
at  work  in  all  conceivable  ways  to  get  trace  of 
him,  but  from  the  moment  he  left  Mr.  Birtwell's  he 
dropped  out  of  sight  as  completely  as  if  the  sea  had 
gone  over  him.  Up  to  this  time  not  the  smallest 
clue  to  this  dreadful  mystery  has  been  found.  But 
come,  doctor.  Every  moment  is  precious." 

Doctor  Hillhouse  drew  out  his  watch.  It  was 
now  nearly  half-past  ten  o'clock.  His  manner  was 
nervous,  verging  on  to  excitement.  In  almost  any 
other  case  he  would  have  said  that  it  was  not  possi 
ble  for  him  to  go.  But  the  exigency  and  the  pecu 
liarly  distressing  circumstances  attending  upon  this 
made  it  next  to  impossible  for  him  to  refuse. 

"At  twelve  o'clock,  Mr.  Voss,  I  have  a  deli 
cate  and  difficult  operation  to  perform,  and  I  have 
too  short  a  time  now  for  the  preparation  I  need.  I 
am  sure  you  can  rely  fully  on  my  assistant,  Doctor 
Angier." 

"  No,  no !"  replied  Mr.  Voss,  waving  his  hand 
almost  impatiently.  "  I  do  not  want  Doctor  Angier 
You  must  see  Mrs.  Voss  yourself." 

He  was  imperative,  almost  angry.  What  was  the 
delicate  and  difficult  operation  to  him  ?  What  was 
anything  or  anybody  that  stood  in  the  way  of  sue- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        205 

cor  for  his  imperiled  wife  ?  He  could  not  pause  to 
think  of  others'  needs  or  danger. 

Doctor  Hillhouse  had  to  decide  quickly,  and  his 
decision  was  on  the  side  where  pressure  was  strongest. 
He  could  not  deny  Mr.  Voss. 

He  found  the  poor  distressed  mother  in  a  condi 
tion  of  utter  prostration.  For  a  little  while  after 
coming  out  of  the  swoon  into  which  her  first  wild 
fears  had  thrown  her,  she  had  been  able  to  maintain 
a  tolerably  calm  exterior.  But  the  very  effort  to  do 
this  was  a  draught  on  her  strength,  and  in  a  few  hours, 
under  the  continued  suspense  of  waiting  and  hear 
ing  nothing  from  her  boy,  the  overstrained  nerves 
broke  down  again,  and  she  sunk  into  a  condition  of 
half-conscious  suffering  that  was  painful  to  see. 

For  such  conditions  medicine  can  do  but  little. 
All  that  Doctor  Hillhouse  ventured  to  prescribe  was 
a  quieting  draught.  It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when 
he  got  back  to  his  office,  where  he  found  Mr.  Ridley 
waiting  for  him  with  a  note  from  Doctor  Ainsworth. 

"  Come  for  just  a  single  moment,"  the  note  said. 
"There  are  marked  changes  in  her  condition." 

"  I  cannot !  It  is  impossible  !"  exclaimed  Doctoi 
Hillhouse,  with  an  excitement  of  manner  he  could 
not  repress.  "  Doctor  Ainsworth  can  do  all  that  it 
is  in  the  power  of  medical  skill  to  accomplish.  It 
will  not  help  her  for  me  to  go  again  now,  and  an 
other  life  is  in  my  hands.  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Ridley, 
but  I  cannot  see  your  wife  again  until  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  doctor,  doctor,  don't  say  that !"  cried  the  poor, 

18 


206         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend, 

distressed  husband,  clasping  his  hands  and  looking 
at  Doctor  Hillhouse  with  a  pale,  imploring  face. 
"  Just  for  a  single  moment,  doctor.  Postpone  your 
operation.  Ten  minutes,  or  even  an  hour,  can  be 
of  no  consequence.  But  life  or  death  may  depend 
on  your  seeing  my  wife  at  once.  Come,  doctor! 
Come,  for  God's  sake  1" 

Doctor  Hillhouse  looked  at  his  watch  again,  stood 
in  a  bewildered,  uncertain  way  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  turned  quickly  toward  the  door  and  went 
out,  Mr.  Ridley  following. 

44  Get  in,"  he  said,  waving  his  hand  in  the  direc 
tion  of  his  carriage,  which  still  remained  in  front  of 
his  office.  Mr.  Ridley  obeyed.  Doctor  Hillhouse 
gave  the  driver  a  hurried  direction,  and  sprang  in 
after  him.  They  rode  in  silence  for  the  whole  dis 
tance  to  Mr.  Ridley's  dwelling. 

One  glance  at  the  face  of  the  sick  woman  was 
enough  to  show  Doctor  Hillhouse  that  she  was  be 
yond  the  reach  of  professional  skill.  Her  disease, 
as  he  had  before  seen,  had  taken  on  its  worst  form, 
and  was  running  its  fatal  course  with  a  malignant 
impetuosity  it  was  impossible  to  arrest.  The  wild 
fever  of  anxiety  occasioned  by  her  husband's  ab 
sence  during  that  dreadful  night,  the  cold  to  which, 
in  her  delirium  of  fear,  she  had  exposed  herself, 
the  great  shock  her  delicate  organism  had  sustained 
at  a  time  when  even  the  slightest  disturbance  might 
lead  to  serious  consequences, — all  these  causes  com 
bined  had  so  broken  down  her  vitality  and  poisoned 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         207 

her  blood  that  nature  had  no  force  strong  enough 
to  rally  against  the  enemies  of  her  life. 

A  groan  that  sounded  like  a  wail  of  desperation 
broke  from  Mr.  Ridley's  lips  as  he  came  in  with  the 
doctor  and  looked  at  the  death-stricken  countenance 
of  his  wife.  The  two  physicians  gazed  at  each  other 
with  ominous  faces,  and  stood  silent  and  helpless  at 
the  bedside. 

When  Doctor  Hillhouse  hurried  away  ten  minutes 
afterward  he  knew  that  he  had  looked  for  the  last 
time  upon  his  patient.  Mr.  Ridley  did  not  attempt 
to  detain  him.  Hope  had  expired,  and  he  sat  bowed 
and  crushed,  wishing  that  he  could  die. 

The  large  quantity  of  opium  which  had  been 
taken  by  Mrs.  Ridley  held  all  her  outward  senses 
locked,  and  she  passed  away,  soon  after  Doctor  Hill- 
house  retired,  without  giving  her  husband  a  parting 
word  or  even  a  sign  of  recognition. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

WHEN  Doctor  Hillhouse  arrived  at  his  office, 
it  lacked  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  twelve, 
the  time  fixed  for  the  operation  on  Mrs.  Carlton.    He 
found  Doctor  Kline  and  Doctor  Angier,  who  were  to 
assist  him,  both  awaiting  his  return. 

"  I  thought  twelve  o'clock  the  hour  ?"  said  Doctor 
Kline  as  he  came  in  hurriedly. 

"So  it  is.  But  everything  has  seemed  to  work 
adversely  this  morning.  Mr.  Ridley's  wife  is  ex 
tremely  ill — dying,  in  fact — and  I  have  had  to  see  her 
too  or  three  times.  Other  calls  have  been  impera 
tive,  and  here  I  am  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
the  time  fixed  for  a  most  delicate  operation,  and  my 
preparations  not  half  completed." 

Doctor  Kline  regarded  him  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  said : 

"This  is  unfortunate,  doctor,  and  I  would  advise 
a  postponement  until  to-morrow.  You  should  have 
had  a  morning  free  from  anything  but  unimportant 
calls." 

"  Oh  no.     I  cannot  think  of  a  postponement."  Doc 
tor  Hillhouse  replied.     "  All  the  arrangements  have 
been  made  at  Mr.  Carlton's,  and  my  patient  is  ready., 

208 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

To  put  it  off  for  a  single  day  might  cause  a  reaction 
in  her  feelings  and  produce  an  unfavorable  condition. 
Tt  will  have  to  be  done  to-day." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  keeping  your  appoint 
ment  to  the  hour,"  said  Doctor  Kline,  glancing  at 
his  watch.  "  Indeed,  that  would  now  be  impossible. 
Doctor  Angier  had  better  go  and  say  that  we  will 
be  there  within  half  an  hour.  Don't  hurry  your 
self  in  the  slightest  degree.  Take  all  the  time  you 
need  to  make  yourself  ready.  I  will  remain  and 
assist  you  as  best  I  can." 

A  clear-seeing  and  controlling  mind  was  just  what 
Doctor  Hillhouse  needed  at  that  moment.  He  saw 
the  value  of  Doctor  Kline's  suggestion,  and  promptly 
accepted  it.  Doctor  Angier  was  despatched  to  the 
residence  of  Mr.  Carlton  to  advise  that  gentleman 
of  the  brief  delay  and  to  make  needed  preparations 
for  the  work  that  was  to  be  done. 

The  very  necessity  felt  by  Doctor  Hillhouse  for  a 
speedy  repression  of  the  excitement  from  which  he 
was  suffering  helped  to  increase  the  disturbance,  and 
it  was  only  after  he  had  used  a  stimulant  stronger 
than  he  wished  to  take  that  he  found  his  nerves  be 
coming  quiet  and  the  hand  on  whose  steadiness  so 
much  depended  growing  firm. 

At  half-past  twelve  Doctor  Hillhouse,  in  company 
with  Doctor  Kline,  arrived  at  Mr.  Carlton's.  The 
ivhite  face  and  scared  look  of  the  female  servant 
who  admitted  them  showed  how  strongly  fear  and 
sympathy  were  at  work  in  the  house.  She  directed 
is*  o 


2IO         Wounded  in  the  Hottse  of  a  Friend. 

them  to  the  room  which  had  been  set  apart  for  their 
use.  In  the  hall  above  Mr.  Carlton  met  them,  and 
returned  with  a  trembling  hand  and  silent  pressure 
the  salutation  of  the  two  physicians,  who  passed  into 
a  chamber  next  to  the  one  occupied  by  their  patient 
and  quickly  began  the  work  of  making  everything 
ready.  Acting  from  previous  concert,  they  drew  the 
table  which  had  been  provided  into  the  best  light 
afforded  by  the  room,  and  then  arranged  instruments, 
bandages  and  all  things  needed  for  the  work  to  be 
done. 

When  all  these  preparations  were  completed,  notice 
was  given  to  Mrs.  Carlton,  who  immediately  entered 
from  the  adjoining  room.  She  was  a  beautiful  wo 
man,  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  and  never  had  she 
appeared  more  beautiful  than  now.  Her  strong  will 
had  mastered  fear,  strength,  courage  and  resignation 
looked  out  from  her  clear  eyes  and  rested  on  her 
firm  lips.  She  smiled,  but  did  not  speak.  Doctor 
Hillhouse  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  the 
table  on  which  she  was  to  lie  during  the  operation, 
saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  It  will  be  over  in  a  few  min 
utes,  and  you  will  not  feel  it  as  much  as  the  scratch 
of  a  pin." 

She  laid  herself  down  without  a  moment's  hesita 
tion,  and  as  she  did  so  Doctor  Angier,  according  tc 
previous  arrangement,  presented  a  sponge  saturated 
with  ether  to  her  nostrils,  and  in  two  minutes  com 
plete  anaesthesis  was  produced.  On  the  instant  this 
took  place  Doctor  Hillhouse  made  an  incision  and 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        211 

cut  down  quickly  to  the  tumor.  His  hand  was 
steady,  and  he  seemed  to  be  in  perfect  command  of 
himself.  The  stimulants  he  had  taken  as  a  last 
resort  were  still  active  on  brain  and  nerves.  On 
reaching  the  tumor  he  found  it,  as  he  had  feared, 
much  larger  than  its  surface  presentation  indicated. 
It  was  a  hard,  fibrous  substance,  and  deeply  seated 
among  the  veins,  arteries  and  muscles  of  the  neck. 
The  surgeon's  hand  retained  its  firmness ;  there  was 
a  concentration  of  thought  and  purpose  that  gave 
science  and  skill  their  best  results.  It  took  over 
twenty  minutes  to  dissect  the  tumor  away  from  all 
the  delicate  organs  upon  which  it  had  laid  its  grasp, 
and  nearly  half  as  long  a  time  to  stanch  the  flow  of 
blood  from  the  many  small  arteries  which  had  been 
severed  during  the  operation.  One  of  these,  larger 
than  the  rest,  eluded  for  a  time  the  efforts  of  Doctor 
Hillhouse  at  ligation,  and  he  felt  uncertain  about  it 
even  after  he  had  stopped  the  effusion  of  blood.  In 
fact,  his  hand  had  become  unsteady  and  his  brain 
slightly  confused.  The  active  stimulant  taken  half 
an  hour  before  was  losing  its  effect  and  his  nerves 
beginning  to  give  way.  He  was  no  longer  master 
of  the  situation,  and  the  last  and,  as  it  proved,  the 
most  vital  thing  in  the  whole  operation  was  done 
imperfectly. 

At  the  end  of  thirty-five  minutes  the  patient,  still 
under  the  influence  of  ether,  was  carried  back  to  her 
chamber  and  laid  back  upon  her  bed,  quiet  as  a 
sleeping  infant. 


212          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  said  Doctor  Hillhouse  as  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Carlton  unclosed  a  little  while  after 
ward  and  she  looked  up  into  his  face.  He  was  no 
longer  the  impassive  surgeon,  but  the  tender  and 
sympathizing  friend.  His  voice  was  flooded  with 
feeling  and  moisture  dimmed  his  eyes. 

What  a  look  of  sweet  thankfulness  came  into  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Carlton  as  she  whispered,  "  And  I  knew 
nothing  of  it !"  Then,  shutting  her  eyes  and  speaking 
to  herself,  she  said,  "  It  is  wonderful.  Thank  God, 
thank  God !" 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  restrain  Mr.  Carlton, 
so  excessive  was  his  delight  when  the  long  agony 
of  suspense  was  over.  Doctor  Hillhouse  had  to 
grasp  his  arm  tightly  and  hold  him  back  as  he 
stooped  down  over  his  wife.  In  the  blindness  of 
his  great  joy  he  would  have  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Perfect  quiet,"  said  the  doctor.  "  There  must 
be  nothing  to  give  her  heart  a  quicker  pulsation. 
Doctor  Angier  will  remain  for  half  an  hour  to  see 
that  all  goes  well," 

The  two  surgeons  then  retired,  Doctor  Kline 
accompanying  Doctor  Hillhouse  to  his  office.  The 
latter  was  silent  all  the  way.  The  strain  over  and 
the  alcoholic  stimulation  gone,  mind  and  body  had 
alike  lost  their  abnormal  tension. 

"  I  must  congratulate  you,  doctor,"  said  the  friend 
ly  surgeon  who  had  assisted  in  the  operation.  "  It 
was  even  more  difficult  than  I  had  imagined.  I 
never  saw  a  case  in  which  the  sheathings  of  the 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         213 

internal  jugular  vein  and  carotid  artery  were  so 
completely  involved.  The  tumor  had  made  its  ugly 
adhesion  all  around  them.  I  almost  held  my  breath 
when  the  blood  from  a  severed  artery  spurted  over 
your  scalpel  and  hid  from  sight  the  keen  edge  that 
was  cutting  around  the  internal  jugular.  A  false 
movement  of  the  hand  at  that  instant  might  have 
been  fatal." 

"  Yes  ;  and  but  for  the  clearness  of  that  inner  sight 
which,  in  great  exigencies,  so  often  supplements  the 
failing  natural  vision,  all  might  have  been  lost,"  re 
plied  Doctor  Hillhouse,  betraying  in  his  unsteady 
voice  the  great  reaction  from  which  he  was  suffering. 
"  If  I  had  known,"  he  added,  "  that  the  tumor  was 
so  large  and  its  adhesion  so  extensive,  I  would  not 
have  operated  to-day.  In  fact,  I  was  in  no  condition 
for  the  performance  of  any  operation.  I  committed 
a  great  indiscretion  in  going  to  Mr.  Birtwell's  last 
night.  Late  suppers  and  wine  do  not  leave  one's 
nerves  in  the  best  condition,  as  you  and  I  know  very 
well,  doctor ;  and  as  a  preparation  for  work  such  as 
we  have  had  on  hand  to-day  nothing  could  be  worse." 

"  Didn't  I  hear  something  about  the  disappearance 
of  a  young  man  who  left  Mr.  Birtwell's  at  a  late 
hour  ?"  asked  Doctor  Kline. 

"  Nothing  has  been  heard  of  the  son  of  Wilmei 
Voss  since  he  went  away  from  Mr.  Birtwell's  about 
one  o'clock,"  rep'ied  Doctor  Hillhouse,  "and  his  fam» 
ily  are  in  great  distress  about  him.  Mrs.  Voss,  who 
is  one  of  my  patients,  is  in  very  delicate  health,  and 


214         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

when  I  saw  her  at  eleven  o'clock  to-day  was  lying 
in  a  critical  condition." 

'*  There  is  something  singular  about  that  party  at 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell's,"  added  Doctor  Hillhouse, 
after  a  pause.  "  I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"  Singular  in  what  respect  ?"  asked  the  other. 

The  face  of  Doctor  Hillhouse  grew  more  serious : 

"You  know  Mr.  Ridley,  the  lawyer?  He  was  in 
Congress  a  few  years  ago." 

"  Yes." 

"  He  was  very  intemperate  at  one  time,  and  fell  so 
low  that  even  his  party  rejected  him.  He  then  re 
formed  and  came  to  this  city,  where  he  entered  upon 
the  practice  of  his  profession,  and  has  been  for  a 
year  or  two  advancing  rapidly.  I  attended  his  wife 
a  few  days  ago,  and  saw  her  yesterday  afternoon, 
when  she  was  continuing  to  do  well.  There  were 
some  indications  of  excitement  about  her,  though 
whether  from  mental  or  physical  causes  I  could  not 
tell,  but  nothing  to  awaken  concern.  This  morning 
I  found  her  in  a  most  critical  condition.  Puerperal 
fever  had  set  in,  with  evident  extensive  peritoneal 
involvement.  The  case  was  malignant,  all  the 
abdominal  viscera  being  more  or  less  affected.  I 
learned  from  the  nurse  that  Mr.  Ridley  was  away  all 
night,  and  that  Mrs.  Ridley,  who  was  restless  and 
feverish  through  the  evening,  became  agitated  and 
slightly  delirious  after  twelve  o'clock,  talking  about 
and  calling  for  her  husband,  whom  she  imagined 
dying  in  the  storm,  that  now  raged  with  dreadful 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        2 1 5 

violence.  No  help  could  be  had  all  night;  and  when 
we  saw  her  this  morning,  it  was  too  late  for  medicine 
to  control  the  fatal  disease  which  was  running  its 
course  with  almost  unprecedented  rapidity.  She  was 
dying  when  I  saw  her  at  half-past  eleven  this  morn 
ing.  This  case  and  that  of  Mrs.  Voss  were  the  ones 
that  drew  so  largely  on  my  time  this  morning,  and 
helped  to  disturb  me  so  much,  and  both  were  in  con 
sequence  of  Mr.  Birtwell's  party." 

"  They  might  have  an  indirect  connection  with  the 
party,"  returned  Doctor  Kline,  "  but  can  hardly  be 
called  legitimate  consequences." 

"  They  are  legitimate  consequences  of  the  free 
wine  and  brandy  dispensed  at  Mr.  Birtwell's,"  said 
Doctor  Hillhouse.  "Tempted  by  its  sparkle  and 
flavor,  Archie  Voss,  as  pure  and  promising  a  young 
man  as  you  will  find  in  the  city,  was  lured  on  until 
he  had  taken  more  than  his  brain  would  bear.  In 
this  state  he  went  out  at  midnight  alone  in  a  blind 
ing  storm  and  lost  his  way — how  or  where  is  not 
yet  known.  He  may  have  been  set  upon  and  robbed 
and  murdered  in  his  helpless  condition,  or  he  may 
have  fallen  into  a  pit  where  he  lies  buried  beneath 
the  snow,  or  he  may  have  wandered  in  his  blind 
bewilderment  to  the  river  and  gone  down  under  its 
chilling  waters. 

"  Mr.  Ridley,  with  his  old  appetite  not  dead,  but 
only  half  asleep  and  lying  in  wait  for  an  opportunity, 
goes  also  to  Mr.  Birtwell's,  and  the  sparkle  and  flavor 
of  wine  and  the  invitations  that  are  pressed  upon 


216         Wounded  m  tlte  House  of  a  Friend. 

him  from  all  sides  prove  too  much  for  his  good  reso 
lutions.  He  tastes  and  falls.  He  goes  in  his  right 
mind,  and  comes  away  so  much  intoxicated  that  he 
cannot  find  his  way  home.  How  he  reached  there 
at  last  I  do  not  know — he  must  have  been  in  some 
station-house  until  daylight ;  but  when  I  saw  him, 
his  pitiable  suffering  and  alarmed  face  made  my 
heart  ache.  He  had  killed  his  wife  !  He,  or  the 
wine  he  found  at  Mr.  Birtwell's  ?  Which  ?" 

Doctor  Hillhouse  was  nervous  and  excited,  using 
stronger  language  than  was  his  wont. 

"And  I,"  he  added,  before  Doctor  Kline  could 
respond — "  I  went  to  the  party  also,  and  the  sparkle 
and  flavor  of  wine  and  spirit  of  conviviality  that 
pervaded  the  company  lured  me  also — not  weak  like 
Archie,  nor  with  a  shattered  self-control  like  Mr. 
Ridley — to  drink  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence, 
as  my  nervous  condition  to-day  too  surely  indi 
cates.  A  kind  of  fatality  seems  to  have  attended 
this  party." 

The  doctor  gave  a  little  shiver,  which  was  ob 
served  by  Doctor  Kline. 

"Not  a  nervous  chill?"  said  the  latter,  manifesting 
concern. 

"No;  a  moral  chill,  if  I  may  use  such  a  term," 
replied  Doctor  Hillhouse — "a  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  what  might  have  been  as  one  of  the  consequences 
of  Mr.  Birtwell's  liberal  dispensation  of  wine." 

"  The  strain  of  the  morning's  work  has  been  too 
much  for  you,  doctor,  and  given  your  mind  an  un- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        217 

healthy  activity,"  said  his  companion.  "  You  want 
rest  and  time  for  recuperation." 

"  It  would  have  been  nothing  except  for  the  bale 
ful  effects  of  that  party,"  answered  the  doctor,  whose 
thought  could  not  dissever  itself  from  the  unhappy 
consequences  which  had  followed  the  carousal  (is 
the  word  too  strong?)  at  Mr.  Birtwell's.  "If  I  had 
not  been  betrayed  into  drinking  wine  enough  to  dis 
turb  seriously  my  nervous  system  and  leave  it  weak 
and  uncertain  to-day,  if  Mr.  Ridley  had  not  been 
tempted  to  his  fall,  if  poor  Archie  Voss  had  been  at 
home  last  night  instead  of  in  the  private  drinking- 
saloon  of  one  of  our  most  respected  citizens,  do  you 
think  that  hand,"  holding  up  his  right  hand  as  he 
spoke,  "  would  have  lost  for  a  moment  its  cunning 
to-day  and  put  in  jeopardy  a  precious  life  ?" 

The  doctor  rose  from  his  chair  in  much  excite 
ment  and  walked  nervously  about  the  room. 

"  It  did  not  lose  its  cunning,"  said  Doctor  Kline, 
in  a  calm  but  emphatic  voice.  "  I  watched  you  from 
the  moment  of  the  first  incision  until  the  last  artery 
was  tied,  and  a  truer  hand  I  never  saw." 

"Thank  God  that  the  stimulus  which  I  had  to 
substitute  for  nervous  power  held  out  as  long  as  it 
did.  If  it  had  failed  a  few  moments  sooner,  I  might 
have — " 

Doctor  Hillhouse  checked  himself  and  gave  an 
other  little  shudder. 

"  Do  you  know,  doctor,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
speaking  in  a  low,  half-confidential  tone  and  with 

19 


2 1 8         Wounded  m  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

greit  seriousness  of  manner,  "  when  I  severed  that 
small  artery  as  I  was  cutting  close  to  the  inter 
nal  jugular  vein  and  the  jet  of  blood  hid  both  the 
knife-points  and  the  surrounding  tissues,  that  for  an 
instant  I  was  in  mental  darkness  and  that  I  did  not 
know  whether  I  should  cut  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left  ?  If  in  that  moment  of  darkness  I  had  cut  to 
the  right,  my  instrument  would  have  penetrated  the 
jugular  vein." 

It  was  several  moments  before  either  of  the  sur 
geons  spoke  again.  There  was  a  look  something 
like  fear  in  both  their  faces. 

"  It  is  the  last  time,"  said  Doctor  Hillhouse,  break 
ing  at  length  the  silence  and  speaking  with  unwonted 
emphasis,  "  that  a  drop  of  wine  or  brandy  shall  pass 
my  lips  within  forty-eight  hours  of  any  operation." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  that  you  will  help  as  much  as 
hurt  by  this  abstinence,"  replied  Doctor  Kline.  "  If 
you  are  in  the  habit  of  using  wine  daily,  I  should 
say  keep  to  your  regular  quantity.  Any  change 
will  be  a  disturbance  and  break  the  fine  nervous  ten 
sion  that  is  required.  It  is  easy  to  account  for  your 
c< edition  to-day.  If  you  had  taken  only  your  one 
or  two  or  three  glasses  yesterday,  as  the  case  may 
be,  and  kept  away  from  the  excitement  and — par 
don  me — excesses  of  last  night — anything  beyond 
the  ordinary  rule  in  these  things  is  an  excess,  you 
know — there  would  have  been  no  failure  of  the 
nerves  at  a  critical  juncture." 

"  Is  not  the  mind  clearer  and  the  nerves  steadied 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        219 

when  sustained  by  healthy  nutrition  than  when  toned 
up  by  stimulants?"  asked  Doctor  Hillhouse. 

"  If  stimulants  have  never  been  taken,  yes.  But 
you  know  that  we  all  use  stimulants  in  one  form  or 
another,  and  to  suddenly  remove  them  is  to  leave 
the  nerves  partially  unstrung." 

"  Which  brings  us  face  to  face  with  the  question 
whether  or  not  alcoholic  stimulants  are  hurtful  to 
the  delicate  and  wonderfully  complicated  machinery 
of  the  human  body.  I  say  alcoholic,  for  we  know 
that  all  the  stimulation  we  get  from  wine  or  beer 
comes  from  the  presence  of  alcohol." 

While  Doctor  Hillhouse  was  speaking,  the  office 
bell  rang  violently.  As  soon  as  the  door  was  opened 
a  man  came  in  hurriedly  and  handed  him  a  slip  of 
paper  on  which  were  written  these  few  words : 

"An  artery  has  commenced  bleeding.  Come 
q'rickly!  ANGIER." 

Doctor  Hillhouse  started  to  his  feet  and  gave  a 
quick  order  for  his  carriage.  As  it  drove  up  to  the 
office-door  soon  after,  he  sprang  in,  accompanied  by 
Doctor  Kline.  He  had  left  his  case  of  instruments 
at  the  house  with  Doctor  Angier. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either  of  the  two  men 
as  they  were  whirled  along  over  the  snow,  the  wheels 
of  the  carriage  giving  back  only  a  sharp  crisping 
sound,  but  their  faces  were  very  sober. 

Mr.  Carlton  met  them,  looking  greatly  alarmed. 

"Oh,  doctor,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  caught  the 
hand  of  Doctor  Hillhouse,  almost  crushing  it  in  his 


22O        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

grasp,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are  here.  I  was  afraid 
she  might  bleed  to  death." 

"  No  danger  of  that,"  replied  Doctor  Hillhouse, 
trying  to  look  assured  and  to  speak  with  confidence. 
"  It  is  only  the  giving  way  of  some  small  artery 
which  will  have  to  be  tied  again." 

On  reaching  his  patient,  Doctor  Hillhouse  found 
that  one  of  the  small  arteries  he  had  been  compelled 
to  sever  in  his  work  of  cutting  the  tumor  away  from 
the  surrounding  parts  was  bleeding  freely.  Half  a 
dozen  handkerchiefs  and  napkins  had  already  been 
saturated  with  blood;  and  as  it  still  came  freely, 
nothing  was  left  but  to  reopen  the  wound  and  re- 
ligate  the  artery. 

Ether  was  promptly  given,  and  as  soon  as  the 
patient  was  fairly  under  its  influence  the  bandages 
were  removed  and  the  sutures  by  which  the  wound 
had  been  drawn  together  cut.  The  cavity  left  by 
the  tumor  was,  of  course,  full  of  blood.  This  was 
taken  out  with  sponges,  when  at  the  lower  part  of 
the  orifice  a  thin  jet  of  blood  was  visible.  The  sur 
rounding  parts  had  swollen,  thus  embedding  the 
mouth  of  the  artery  so  deeply  that  it  could  not  be 
recovered  without  again  using  the  knife.  What  fol 
lowed  will  be  best  understood  if  given  in  the  doc 
tor's  own  words  in  a  relation  of  the  circumstances 
made  by  him  a  few  years  afterward. 

"  As  you  will  see,"  he  said,  "  I  was  in  the  worst 
possible  condition  for  an  emergency  like  this.  I  had 
used  no  stimulus  since  returning  from  Mr.  Carlton's, 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         22  i 

though  just  going  to  order  wine  when  the  summons 
from  Doctor  Angier  came.  If  I  had  taken  a  glass  or 
two,  it  would  have  been  better,  but  the  imperative 
nature  of  the  summons  disconcerted  me.  I  was  just 
in  the  condition  to  be  disturbed  and  confused.  I 
remembered  when  too  late  the  grave  omission,  and 
had  partly  resolved  to  ask  Mr.  Carlton  for  a  glass 
of  wine  before  proceeding  to  reopen  the  wound  and 
search  for  the  bleeding  artery.  But  a  too  vivid  recol 
lection  of  my  recent  conversation  with  him  about 
Doctor  Kline  prevented  my  doing  so. 

"  I  felt  my  hand  tremble  as  I  removed  the  ban 
dages  and  opened  the  deep  cavity  left  by  the  dis 
placed  tumor.  After  the  blood  with  which  it  was 
filled  had  been  removed,  I  saw  at  the  deepest  part 
of  the  cavity  the  point  from  which  the  blood  was 
flowing,  and  made  an  effort  to  recover  the  artery, 
which,  owing  to  the  uncertainty  of  hand  which  had 
followed  the  loss  of  stimulation,  I  had  tied  imper 
fectly.  But  it  was  soon  apparent  that  the  parts  had 
swollen,  and  that  I  should  have  to  cut  deeper  in 
order  to  get  possession  of  the  artery,  which  lay  in 
close  contact  with  the  internal  jugular  vein.  Doctor 
Kline  was  holding  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the 
patient  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  tension  to  all  the  ves 
sels  of  the  neck,  while  my  assistant  held  open  the  lip? 
of  the  wound,  so  that  I  could  see  well  into  the  cavity. 

"  My  hand  did  not  recover  its  steadiness.  As  I 
began  cutting  down  to  find  the  artery  I  seemed  sud 
denly  to  be  smitten  with  blindness  and  to  lose  a 
10  • 


222          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

clear  perception  of  what  I  was  doing.  It  seemed 
as  if  some  malignant  spirit  had  for  the  moment  got 
possession  of  me,  coming  in  through  the  disorder 
wrought  in  my  nervous  system  by  over  stimulation, 
and  used  the  hand  I  could  no  longer  see  to  guide 
the  instrument  I  was  holding  for  death  instead  of 
life.  I  remember  now  that  a  sudden  impulse  seemed 
given  to  my  arm  as  if  some  one  had  struck  it  a  blow. 
Then  a  sound  which  it  had  never  before  been  my 
misfortune  to  hear — and  I  pray  God  I  may  never 
hear  it  again — startled  me  to  an  agonized  sense  of 
the  disaster  I  had  wrought.  Too  well  I  knew  the 
meaning  of  the  lapping,  hissing,  sucking  noise  that 
instantly  smote  our  ears.  I  had  made  a  deep  cut 
across  the  jugular  vein,  the  wound  gaping  widely  in 
consequence  of  the  tension  given  to  the  vein  by  the 
position  of  the  patient's  head.  A  large  quantity  of 
air  rushed  in  instantly. 

"  An  exclamation  of  alarm  from  Doctor  Kline,  as 
he  changed  the  position  of  the  patient's  neck  in 
order  to  force  the  lips  of  the  wound  together  and 
stop  the  fatal  influx  of  air,  roused  me  from  a  mo 
mentary  stupor,  and  I  came  back  into  complete  self- 
possession.  The  fearful  exigency  of  the  moment  gave 
to  nerve  and  brain  all  the  stimulus  they  required. 
Already  there  was  a  struggle  for  breath,  and  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Carlton,  which  had  been  slightly  suf 
fused  with  color,  became  pale  and  distressed.  Suffi 
cient  air  had  entered  to  change  the  condition  of  the 
blood  in  the  right  cavities  of  the  heart,  and  prevent 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        223 

its  free  transmission  to  the  lungs.  We  could  hear  3 
churning  sound  occasioned  by  the  blood  and  air 
being  whipped  together  in  the  heart,  and  on  apply 
ing  the  hand  to  the  chest  could  feel  a  strange  thrill 
ing  or  rasping  sensation. 

"  The  most  eminent  surgeons  differ  in  regard  to 
the  best  treatment  in  cases  like  this,  which  are  of 
very  rare  occurrence ;  to  save  life  the  promptest 
action  is  required.  So  large  an  opening  as  I  had 
unhappily  made  in  this  vein  could  not  be  quit  kly 
closed,  and  with  each  inspiration  of  the  patient  n  ore 
air  was  sucked  in,  so  that  the  blood  in  the  J.ght 
cavities  of  the  heart  soon  became  beaten  into  a 
spumous  froth  that  could  not  be  forced  except  in 
small  quantities  through  the  pulmonary  vessel?  into 
the  lungs. 

"  The  effect  of  a  diminished  supply  of  blood  to 
the  brain  and  nervous  centres  quickly  became  ap 
parent  in  threatened  syncope.  Our  only  hope  lay 
in  closing  the  wound  so  completely  that  no  more 
air  could  enter,  and  then  removing  from  the  heart 
and  capillaries  of  the  lungs  the  air  already  received, 
and  now  hindering  the  flow  of  blood  to  the  brain 
One  mode  of  treatment  recommended  by  French 
surgeons  consists  in  introducing  the  pipe  of  a  cathe 
ter  through  the  wound,  if  in  the  right  jugular,  vein — 
or  if  not,  through  an  opening  made  for  the  purpose 
in  that  vein — and  the  withdrawal  of  the  air  from  the 
right  auricle  of  the  heart  by  suction. 

"  Doctor  Kline  favored  this  treatment,  but  I  knew 


224        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

that  it  would  be  fatal.  Any  reopening  of  the  wound 
now  partially  closed  in  order  to  introduce  a  tube, 
even  if  my  instrument  case  had  contained  one  of 
suitable  size  and  length,  must  necessarily  have  ad 
mitted  a  large  additional  quantity  of  air,  and  so  made 
death  certain. 

"  Indecision  in  a  case  like  this  is  fatal.  Nothing 
but  the  right  thing  done  with  an  instant  promptness 
can  save  the  imperiled  life.  But  what  was  the  right 
thing  ?  No  more  air  must  be  permitted  to  enter, 
and  the  blood  must  be  unloaded  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible  of  the  air  now  obstructing  its  way  to  the  lungs, 
so  that  the  brain  might  get  a  fresh  supply  before  it  was 
too  late.  We  succeeded  in  the  first,  but  not  in  the 
last.  Too  much  air  had  entered,  and  my  patient  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  professional  aid.  She  sank 
rapidly,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  from  the  time  my 
hand,  robbed  of  its  skill  by  wine,  failed  m  its  wonted 
cunning,  she  lay  white  and  still  before  me." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Mrs.  Voss  came 
out  of  the  deep  sleep  into  which  the  quieting 
draught  administered  by  Doctor  Hillhouse  had 
thrown  her.  She  awoke  from  a  dream  so  vivid  that 
she  believed  it  real. 

"  Oh,  Archie,  my  precious  boy !"  she  exclaimed, 
starting  up  and  reaching  out  her  hands,  a  glad  light 
beaming  on  her  countenance. 

While  her  hands  were  still  outstretched  the  light 
began  to  fade,  and  then  died  out  as  suddenly  as 
when  a  curtain  falls.  The  boy  who  stood  before  her 
in  such  clear  presence  had  vanished.  Her  eyes 
swept  about  the  room,  but  he  was  not  there.  A 
deadly  pallor  on  her  face,  a  groan  on  her  lips,  she 
fell  back  shuddering  upon  the  pillow  from  which  she 
had  risen. 

Mr.  Voss,  who  was  sitting  at  the  bedside,  put  his 
arm  under  her,  and  lifting  her  head,  drew  it  against 
his  breast,  holding  it  there  tightly,  but  not  speaking. 
He  had  no  comfort  to  give,  no  assuring  word  to 
offer.  Not  a  ray  of  light  had  yet  come  in  through 
the  veil  of  mystery  that  hung  so  darkly  over  the 
fate  of  their  absent  boy.  Many  minutes  passed  ere 
the  silence  was  broken.  In  that  time  the  mother's 

P  225 


226         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

heart  had  grown  calmer.  She  was  turning,  in  hei 
weakness  and  despair,  with  religious  trust,  to  the 
only  One  who  was  able  to  sustain  her  in  this  great 
and  crushing  sorrow. 

"  He  is  in  God's  hands,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
lifting  her  head  from  her  husband's  breast  and  look 
ing  into  his  face. 

"  And  he  will  take  care  of  him,"  replied  Mr.  Voss, 
falling  in  with  her  thought 

"  Yes,  we  must  trust  him.  He  is  present  in  every 
place.  He  knows  where  Archie  is,  and  how  to 
shield  and  succor  him.  O  heavenly  Father,  pro 
tect  our  boy!  If  in  danger,  help  and  save  him 
And,  O  Father,  give  me  strength  to  bear  whatever 
may  come." 

The  mother  closed  her  eyes  and  laid  her  head 
back  upon  her  husband's  bosom.  The  rigidity  and 
distress  went  out  of  her  face.  In  this  hour  of  dark 
ness  and  distress,  God,  to  whom  she  looked  and 
prayed  for  strength,  came  very  close  to  her,  and  in 
his  nearer  presence  there  is  always  comfort. 

But  as  the  day  declined  and  the  shadows  of 
another  dreary  winter  night  began  to  draw  their  sol 
emn  curtains  across  the  sky  the  mother's  heart  failed 
again,  and  a  wild  storm  of  fear  and  anguish  swept 
over  it  Neither  policemen  nor  friends  had  been 
able  to  discover  a  trace  of  the  missing  young  man, 
and  advertisements  were  given  out  for  the  papers 
next  morning,  offering  a  large  reward  for  his  resto- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         227 

ration  to  his  friends  if  living  or  for  the  recovery  of 
his  body  if  dead 

The  true  cause  of  Archie's  disappearance  began 
to  be  feared  by  many  of  his  friends.  It  did  not  seem 
possible  that  he  could  have  dropped  so  completely 
out  of  sight  unless  on  the  theory  that  he  had  lost 
his  way  in  the  storm  and  fallen  into  the  river.  This 
suggestion  as  scon  as  it  came  to  Mrs.  Voss  settled 
into  a  conviction.  Her  imagination  brooded  over 
the  idea  and  brought  the  reality  before  her  mind 
with  such  a  cruel  vividness  that  she  almost  saw 
the  tragedy  enacted,  and  heard  again  that  cry  of 
"Mother!"  which  had  seemed  to  mingle  with  the 
wild  shrieks  of  the  tempest,  but  which  came  only  to 
her  inner  sense. 

She  dreamed  that  night  a  dream  which,  though  it 
confirmed  all  this,  tranquilized  and  comforted  her. 
In  a  vision  her  boy  stood  by  her  bedside  and  smiled 
upon  her  with  his  old  loving  smile.  He  bent  over 
and  kissed  her  with  his  wonted  tenderness ;  he  laid 
his  hand  on  her  forehead  with  a  soft  pressure,  and 
she  felt  the  touch  thrilling  to  her  heart  in  sweet  and 
tender  impulses. 

-  It  is  all  well  with  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  shall  wait  for 
you,  mother." 

And  then  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  again,  thf 
pressure  of  his  lips  bringing  an  unspeakable  joy  to 
her  heart  With  this  joy  filling  and  pervading  it,  she 
awoke.  From  that  hour  Mrs.  Voss  never  doubted 
for  a  single  moment  that  her  son  was  dead,  nor  that 


228         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

he  had  come  to  her  in  a  vision  of  the  night.  As  a 
Christian  woman  with  whom  faith  was  no  mere  ideal 
thing  or  vague  uncertainty,  she  accepted  her  great 
affliction  as  within  the  sphere  and  permission  of  a 
good  and  wise  Providence,  and  submitted  herself  to 
the  sad  dispensation  with  a  patience  that  surprised 
her  friends. 

Months  passed,  and  yet  the  mystery  was  unsolved. 
The  large  reward  offered  by  Mr.  Voss  for  the  recov 
ery  of  his  son's  remains  kept  hundreds  of  fishermen 
and  others  who  frequented  the  river  banks  and  shores 
of  the  bay  leading  down  to  the  ocean  on  the  alert. 
As  the  spring  opened  and  the  ice  began  to  give  way 
and  float,  these  men  examined  every  inlet,  cove  and 
bar  where  the  tide  in  its  ebb  and  flow  might  possibly 
have  left  the  body  for  which  they  were  in  search ; 
and  one  day,  late  in  the  month  of  March,  they  found 
it,  three  miles  away  from  the  city,  where  it  had  drifted 
by  the  current 

The  long-accepted  theory  of  the  young  man's 
death  was  proved  by  this  recovery  of  his  body.  No 
violence  was  found  upon  it.  The  diamond  pin  had 
not  been  taken  from  his  shirt-bosom,  nor  the  gold 
watch  from  his  pocket.  On  the  dial  of  his  watch 
the  hands,  stopping  their  movement  as  the  chill  of 
the  icy  water  struck  the  delicate  machinery,  had 
recorded  the  hour  of  his  death — ten  minutes  to  one 
o'clock. 

It  was  not  possible,  under  the  strain  of  such  an 
affliction  and  the  wear  of  a  suspense  that  no  human 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        229 

heart  was  able  to  endure  without  waste  of  life,  for 
one  in  feeble  health  like  Mrs.  Voss  to  hold  her  own. 
Friends  read  in  her  patient  face  and  quiet  mouth, 
and  eyes  that  had  a  far-away  look,  the  signs  of  a 
coming  change  that  could  not  be  very  far  off. 

After  the  sad  certainty  came  and  the  looking  and 
longing  and  waiting  were  over,  after  the  solemn 
services  of  the  church  had  been  said  and  the  cast- 
off  earthly  garments  of  her  precious  boy  hidden 
away  from  sight  for  ever,  the  mother's  hold  upon 
life  grew  feebler  every  day.  She  was  slowly  drifting 
out  from  the  shores  of  time,  and  no  hand  was  strong 
enough  to  hold  her  back.  A  sweet  patience  smoothed 
away  the  lines  of  suffering  which  months  of  sorrow 
and  uncertainty  had  cut  in  her  brow,  the  grieving 
curves  of  her  pale  lips  were  softened  by  tender  sub 
mission,  the  far-off  look  was  still  in  her  eyes,  but  it 
was  no  longer  fixed  and  dreary.  Her  thought  went 
away  from  herself  to  others.  The  heavenly  sphere 
into  which  she  had  come  through  submission  to  her 
Father's  will  and  a  humble  looking  to  God  for  help 
and  comfort  began  to  pervade  her  soul  and  fill  it  with 
that  divine  self-forgetting  which  all  who  come  spirit 
ually  near  to  him  must  feel. 

She  could  not  go  out  and  do  strong  and  widely- 
felt  work  for  humanity,  could  not  lift  up  the  fallen, 
nor  help  the  weak,  nor  visit  the  sick,  nor  comfort 
the  prisoner,  though  often  her  heart  yearned  to  help 
and  strengthen  the  suffering  and  the  distressed.  But 
few  if  any  could  come  into  the  chamber  where  most 

20 


230         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

of  her  days  were  spent  without  feeling  the  sphere 
oi  her  higher  and  purer  life,  and  many,  influenced 
thereby,  went  out  to  do  the  good  works  to  which  she 
so  longed  to  put  her  hands.  So  from  the  narrow 
bounds  of  her  chamber  went  daily  a  power  for  good, 
and  many  who  knew  her  not  were  helped  or  com 
forted  or  lifted  into  purer  and  better  lives  because 
of  her  patient  submission  to  God  and  reception  of 
his  love  into  her  soul. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  one  thought  took  a  deep 
hold  upon  her.  The  real  cause  of  Archie's  death 
was  the  wine  he  had  taken  in  the  house  of  her  friend. 
But  for  that  he  could  never  have  lost  his  way  in  the 
streets  of  his  native  city,  never  have  stepped  from 
solid  ground  into  the  engulfing  water. 

The  lesson  of  this  disaster  was  clear,  and  as  Mrs. 
Voss  brooded  over  it,  the  folly,  the  wrong — nay,  the 
crime — of  those  who  pour  out  wine  like  water  for 
their  guests  in  social  entertainments  magnified  them 
selves  in  her  thought,  and  thought  found  utterance 
in  speech.  Few  came  into  her  chamber  upon  whom 
she  did  not  press  a  consideration  of  this  great  evil, 
the  magnitude  of  which  became  greater  as  her  mind 
dwelt  upon  it,  and  very  few  of  these  went  away 
without  being  disturbed  by  questions  not  easily  an 
swered. 

One  day  one  of  her  attentive  friends  who  had 
called  on  her  said : 

"I  heard  a  sorrowful  story  yesterday,  and  can't 
pet  it  out  of  my  mind." 


Wounded  irt  the  House  of  a  Friend.         231 

Before  Mrs.  Voss  could  reply  a  servant  came  in 
with  a  card. 

:4  Oh,  Mrs.  Birtwell.     Ask  her  to  come  up." 

The  visitor  saw  a  slight  shadow  creep  over  her 
face,  and  knew  its  meaning.  How  could  she  ever 
hear  the  name  or  look  into  the  face  of  Mrs.  Birtwell 
without  thinking  of  that  dreadful  night  when  her 
boy  passed,  almost  at  a  single  step,  from  the  light 
and  warmth  of  her  beautiful  home  into  the  dark  and 
frozen  river?  It  had  cost  her  a  hard  and  painful 
struggle  to  so  put  down  and  hold  in  check  her  feel 
ings  as  to  be  able  to  meet  this  friend,  who  had 
always  been  very  near  and  dear  to  her.  For  a  time, 
and  while  her  distress  of  mind  was  so  great  as 
almost  to  endanger  reason,  she  had  refused  to  see 
Mrs.  Birtwell ;  but  as  that  lady  never  failed  to  call 
at  least  once  a  week  to  ask  after  her,  always  sending 
up  her  card  and  waiting  for  a  reply,  Mrs.  Voss  at 
last  yielded,  and  the  friends  met  again.  Mrs.  Birt 
well  would  have  thrown  her  arms  about  her  and 
clasped  her  in  a  passion  of  tears  to  her  heart,  but 
something  stronger  than  a  visible  barrier  held  her 
off,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  never  get  as  near  to 
this  beloved  friend  as  of  old.  The  interview  was 
tender  though  reserved,  neither  making  any  refer 
ence  to  the  sad  event  that  was  never  a  moment 
absent  from  their  thoughts. 

After  this  Mrs.  Birtwell  came  often,  and  a  measure 
of  the  old  feeling  returned  to  Mrs.  Voss.  Still,  the 
card  of  Mrs.  Birtwell  whenever  it  was  placed  in  her 


232         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend* 

hand  by  a  servant  never  failed  to  bring  a  shadoM 
and  sometimes  a  chill  to  her  heart. 

In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Birtwell  entered  the  room ; 
and  after  the  usual  greetings  and  some  passing  re 
marks,  Mrs.  Voss  said,  speaking  to  the  lady  with 
whom  she  had  been  conversing : 

"What  were  you  going  to  say — about  some  sor 
rowful  story,  I  mean  ?" 

The  pleasant  light  which  had  come  into  the  lady's 
face  on  meeting  Mrs.  Birtwell  faded  out.  She  did 
not  answer  immediately,  and  showed  some  signs  of 
embarrassment.  But  Mrs.  Voss,  not  particularly  no 
ticing  this,  pressed  her  for  the  story.  After  a  slight 
pause  she  said : 

"  In  visiting  a  friend  yesterday  I  observed  a  young 
girl  whom  I  had  never  seen  at  the  house  before. 
She  was  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age,  and 
had  a  face  of  great  refinement  and  much  beauty. 
But  I  noticed  that  it  had  a  sad,  shy  expression.  My 
friend  did  not  introduce  her,  but  said,  turning  to  the 
girl  a  few  moments  after  I  came  in : 

" '  Go  up  to  the  nursery,  Ethel,  and  wait  until  I 
am  disengaged.' 

"  As  the  girl  left  the  room  I  asked,  '  Who  is  that 
young  lady  ?'  remarking  at  the  same  time  that  there 
was  something  peculiarly  interesting  about  her. 

" '  It's  a  sad  case/  remarked  my  friend,  her  voice 
falling  to  atone  of  regret  and  sympathy.  'And  I 
wish  I  knew  just  what  to  do  about  it' 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         233 

" '  Who  is  the  young  girl  ?'  I  asked,  repeating  my 
question. 

" '  The  daughter  of  a  Mr.  Ridley/  she  replied." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  gave  a  little  start,  while  an  expres 
sion  of  pain  crossed  her  face.  The  lady  did  not  look 
at  her,  but  she  felt  the  change  her  mention  of  Mr. 
Ridley  had  produced. 

" '  What  of  him  ?'  I  asked,  not  having  heard  the 
name  before. 

" '  Oh,  I  thought  you  knew  about  him.  He's  a 
lawyer,  formerly  a  member  of  Congress,  and  a  man 
of  brilliant  talents.  He  distinguished  himself  at 
Washington,  and  for  a  time  attracted  much  attention 
there  for  his  ability  as  well  as  for  his  fine  personal 
qualities.  But  unhappily  he  became  intemperate, 
and  at  the  end  of  his  second  term  had  fallen  so  low 
that  his  party  abandoned  him  and  sent  another  in  his 
place.  After  that  he  reformed  and  came  to  this  city, 
bringing  his  family  with  him.  He  had  two  children, 
a  boy  and  a  girl.  His  wife  was  a  cultivated  and  very 
superior  woman.  Here  he  commenced  the  practice 
of  law,  and  soon  by  his  talents  and  devotion  to  busi 
ness  acquired  a  good  practice  and  regained  the  social 
position  he  had  lost. 

"'Unhappily,  his  return  to  society  was  his  return 
to  the  sphere  of  danger.  If  invited  to  dine  with  a 
respectable  citizen,  he  had  to  encounter  temptation  in 
one  of  its  most  enticing  forms.  Good  wine  was 
poured  for  him,  and  both  appetite  and  pride  urged 
him  to  accept  the  fatal  proffer.  If  he  went  to  a  pub- 

20* 


234         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

lie  or  private  entertainment,  the  same  perils  com 
passed  him  about.  From  all  these  he  is  said  to  have 
held  himself  aloof  for  over  a  year,  but  his  reputa 
tion  at  the  bar  and  connection  with  important  cases 
brought  him  more  and  more  into  notice,  and  he  was 
finally  drawn  within  the  circle  of  danger.  Mrs.  Rid 
ley's  personal  accomplishments  and  relationship  with 
one  or  two  families  in  the  State  of  high  social  posi 
tion  brought  her  calls  and  invitations,  and  almost 
forced  her  back  again  into  society,  much  as  she 
would  have  preferred  to  remain  secluded. 

" '  Mr.  Ridley,  it  is  said,  felt  his  danger,  and  I  am 
told  never  escorted  any  lady  but  his  wife  to  the  sup 
per-room  at  a  ball  or  party,  and  there  you  would 
always  see  them  close  together,  he  not  touching 
wine.  But  it  happened  last  winter  that  invitations 
came  for  one  of  the  largest  parties  of  the  season, 
and  it  happened  also  that  only  a  few  nights  before 
the  party  a  little  daughter  had  been  born  to  Mrs. 
Ridley.  Mr.  Ridley  went  alone.  It  was  a  cold  and 
stormy  night.  The  wind  blew  fiercely,  wailing  about 
the  roofs  and  chimneys  and  dashing  the  fast-falling 
snow  in  its  wild  passion  against  the  windows  of  the 
room  in  which  his  sick  wife  lay.  Rest  of  body  and 
mind  was  impossible,  freedom  from  anxiety  impos 
sible.  There  was  everything  to  fear,  everything  to 
lose.  The  peril  of  a  soldier  going  into  the  hottest 
of  the  battle  was  not  greater  than  the  peril  that  her 
busband  wo  ild  encounter  on  that  night;  and  if  he 


Wounded  iu  the  House  of  a  Friend.         235 

fell !  The  thought  chilled  her  blood,  as  well  it  might, 
and  sent  a  shiver  to  her  heart. 

" '  She  was  in  no  condition  to  bear  any  shock  or 
strain,  much  less  the  shock  and  strain  of  a  fear  like 
this.  As  best  she  could  she  held  her  restless  anx 
iety  in  check,  though  fever  had  crept  into  her  blood 
and  an  enemy  to  her  life  was  assaulting  its  very  cita 
del.  But  as  the  hour  at  which  her  husband  had  prom 
ised  to  return  passed  by  and  he  came  not,  anxiety- 
gave  place  to  terror.  The  fever  in  her  blood  in 
creased,  and  sent  delirium  to  her  brain.  Hour^ 
passed,  but  her  husband  did  not  return.  Not  untij 
the  cold  dawn  of  the  next  sorrowful  morning  did  he 
make  his  appearance,  and  then  in  such  a  wretched) 
plight  that  it  was  well  for  his  unhappy  wife  that  she 
could  not  recognize  his  condition.  He  came  too 
late — came  from  one  of  the  police  stations,  it  is  said, 
having  been  found  in  the  street  too  much  intoxicated 
to  find  his  way  home,  and  in  danger  of  perishing  in 
the  snow — came  to  find  his  wife  dying,  and  before 
the  sun  went  down  on  that  day  of  darkness  she  was 
cold  and  still  as  marble.  Happily  for  the  babe,  it 
went  the  way  its  mpther  had  taken,  following  a  few 
days  afterward. 

"  *  That  was  months  ago.  Alas  for  the  wretched 
man !  He  has  never  riser;  from  that  terrible  fall, 
never  even  made  arj  effort,  it  is  said,  to  struggle  to 
his  feet  again.  He  gave  up  in  despair. 

" '  His  eldest  child,  Ethel,  the  young  lady  you 
law  just  now,  was  away  from  home  at  school  when 


336         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

her  mother  died.  Think  of  what  a  coming  back 
was  hers !  My  heart  grows  sick  in  trying  to  imagine 
it.  Poor  child !  she  has  my  deepest  sympathy. 

"  '  Ethel  did  not  return  to  school.  She  was  needed 
at  home  now.  The  death  of  her  mother  and  the 
unhappy  fall  of  her  father  brought  her  face  to  face 
with  new  duties  and  untried  conditions.  She  had 
a  little  brother  only  six  years  old  to  whom  she 
must  be  a  mother  as  well  as  sister.  Responsibilities 
from  which  women  of  matured  years  and  long  expe 
rience  might  well  shrink  were  now  at  the  feet  of 
this  tender  girl,  and  there  was  no  escape  for  her. 
She  must  stoop,  and  with  fragile  form  and  hands 
scarce  stronger  than  a  child's  lift  and  bear  them  up 
from  the  ground.  Love  gave  her  strength  and  cour 
age.  The  woman  hidden  in  the  child  came  forth, 
and  with  a  self-denial  and  self-devotion  that  touches 
me  to  tears  when  I  think  of  it  took  up  the  new  life 
and  new  burdens,  and  has  borne  them  ever  since 
with  a  patience  that  is  truly  heroic. 

" '  But  new  duties  are  now  laid  upon  her.  Since 
her  father's  fall  his  practice  has  been  neglected,  and 
few  indeed  have  been  willing  to  entrust  him  with 
business.  The  little  he  had  accumulated  is  all  gone. 
One  article  of  furniture  after  another  has  been  sold 
to  buy  food  and  clothing,  until  scarcely  anything  is 
left.  And  now  they  occupy  three  small  rooms  in  an 
out-of-the-way  neighborhood,  and  Ethel,  poor  child  1 
is  brought  face  to  face  with  the  question  of  bread.' " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  voice  of  the  speaker  broke  as  she  uttered 
the  last  sentence.  A  deep  silence  fell  upon 
the  little  company.  Mrs.  Birtwell  had  turned  her 
face,  so  that  it  could  not  be  seen,  and  tears  that  she 
was  unable  to  keep  back  were  falling  over  it.  She 
was  first  to  speak. 

"  What,"  she  asked,  "  was  this  young  lady  doing 
at  the  house  of  your  friend  ?" 

"She  had  applied  for  the  situation  of  day-govern 
ess.  My  friend  advertised,  and  Ethel  Ridley,  not 
knowing  that  the  lady  had  any  knowledge  of  her 
or  her  family,  came  and  offered  herself  for  the  place. 
Not  being  able  to  decide  what  was  best  to  be  done, 
she  requested  Ethel  to  call  again  on  the  next  day, 
and  I  came  in  while  she  was  there." 

"  Did  your  friend  engage  her  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birt 
well. 

"  She  had  not  done  so  when  I  saw  her  yesterday. 
The  question  of  fitness  for  the  position  was  one  that 
she  had  not  been  able  to  determine.  Ethel  is  young 
and  inexperienced.  But  she  will  do  all  for  her  that 
lies  in  her  power." 

"  What  is  your  friend's  name  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birt 
well. 

237 


238         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  The  lady  I  refer  to  is  Mrs.  Sandford.  You  know 
her,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Sandford  ?    Yes  ;  I  know  her  very  well." 

By  a  mutual  and  tacit  consent  the  subject  was 
here  dropped,  and  soon  after  Mrs.  Birtwell  retired. 
On  gaining  the  street  she  stood  with  an  air  of  inde- 
termination  for  a  little  while,  and  then  walked  slowly 
away.  Once  or  twice  before  reaching  the  end  of  the 
block  she  paused  and  went  back  a  few  steps,  turned 
and  moved  on  again,  but  still  in  an  undecided  man 
ner.  At  the  corner  she  stopped  for  several  moments, 
then,  as  if  her  mind  was  made  up,  walked  forward 
rapidly.  By  the  firm  set  of  her  mouth  and  the  con 
traction  of  her  brows  it  was  evident  that  some 
strong  purpose  was  taking  shape  in  her  thoughts. 

As  she  was  passing  a  handsome  residence  before 
which  a  carriage  was  standing  a  lady  came  out. 
She  had  been  making  a  call.  On  seeing  her  Mrs. 
Birtwell  stopped,  and  reaching  out  her  hand,  said : 

"  Mrs.  Sandford !  Oh,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I 
was  just  going  to  your  house." 

The  lady  took  her  hand,  and  grasping  it  warmly, 
responded : 

"And  I'm  right  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Birtwell. 
I've  been  thinking  about  you  all  day.  Step  into  the 
carriage.  I  shall  drive  directly  home." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  accepted  the  invitation.  As  the  car 
riage  moved  away  she  said : 

"  I  heard  something  to-day  that  troubles  me. 
I  ^zm  told  that  Mr.  Ridley,  since  the  death  of  his 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         239 

wife,  has  become  very  intemperate,  and  that  his 
family  are  destitute — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  his 
daughter  has  applied  to  you  for  the  situation  of  day- 
governess  in  order  to  earn  something  for  their  sup 
port." 

"It  is  too  true,"  replied  Mrs.  Sandford.  "The 
poor  child  came  to  see  me  in  answer  to  an  adver 
tisement." 

"  Have  you  engaged  her  ?" 

"No.  She  is  too  young  and  inexperienced  for 
the  place.  But  something  must  be  done  for  her." 

"  What  ?  Have  you  thought  out  anything  ?  You 
may  count  on  my  sympathy  and  co-operation." 

"  The  first  thing  to  be  done,"  replied  Mrs.  Sand- 
ford,  "  is  to  lift  her  out  of  her  present  wretched  con 
dition.  She  must  not  be  left  where  she  is,  bur 
dened  with  the  support  of  her  drunken  and  debased 
father.  She  is  too  weak  for  that — too  young  and 
beautiful  and  innocent  to  be  left  amid  the  tempta 
tions  and  sorrows  of  a  life  such  as  she  must  lead  if 
no  one  comes  to  her  rescue." 

"  But  what  will  become  of  her  father  if  you  re 
move  his  child  from  him  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell. 

Her  voice  betrayed  concern.  The  carriage  stopped 
at  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Sandford,  and  the  two  ladies 
went  in. 

"What  will  become  of  her  wretched  father?" 

Mrs.  Birtwell  repeated  her  question  as  they  en 
tered  the  parlors. 

"  He  is  beyond  our  reach,"  was  answered.    "  When 


240         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

a  man  falls  so  low,  the  case  is  hopeless.  He  is  the 
slave  of  an  appetite  that  never  gives  up  its  victims 
It  is  a  sad  and  a  sorrowful  thing,  I  know,  to  abandon 
all  efforts  to  save  a  human  soul,  to  see  it  go  drifting 
off  into  the  rapids  with  the  sound  of  the  cataract  in 
your  ears,  and  it  is  still  more  sad  and  sorrowful  to 
be  obliged  to  hold  back  the  loving  ones  who  could 
only  perish  in  their  vain  attempts  at  rescue.  So  I 
view  the  case.  Ethel  must  not  be  permitted  to  sac 
rifice  herself  for  her  father." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  sat  for  a  long  time  without  replying. 
Her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  floor. 

"  Hopeless !"  she  murmured,  at  length,  in  a  low 
voice  that  betrayed  the  pain  she  felt.  "  Surely  that 
cannot  be  so.  While  there  is  life  there  must  be 
hope.  God  is  not  dead  !" 

She  uttered  the  last  sentence  with  a  strong  rising 
inflection  in  her  tones. 

"  But  the  drunkard  seems  dead  to  all  the  saving 
influences  that  God  or  man  can  bring  to  bear  upon 
him,"  replied  Mrs.  Sandford. 

"  No,  no,  no !  I  will  not  believe  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  speaking  now  with  great  decision  of  man 
ner.  "  God  can  and  does  save  to  the  uttermost  all 
who  come  unto  him." 

"  Yes,  all  who  come  unto  him.  But  men  like  Mr. 
Ridley  seem  to  have  lost  the  power  of  going  to 
God." 

"  Then  is  it  not  our  duty  to  help  them  to  go  ?  A 
man  with  a  broken  leg  cannot  walk  to  the  home 


Wounded  in  tJie  House  of  a  Friend.        24  i 

where  love  and  care  await  him,  but  his  Good  Samari 
tan  neighbor  who  finds  him  by  the  way  can  help  him 
thither.  The  traveler  benumbed  with  cold  lies  help 
less  in  the  road,  and  will  perish  if  some  merciful 
hand  does  not  lift  him  up  and  bear  him  to  a  place 
of  safety.  Even  so  these  unhappy  men  who,  as  you 
say,  seem  to  have  lost  the  power  of  returning  to 
God, can  be  lifted  up,  I  am  sure,  and  set  down,  as  it 
were,  in  his  very  presence,  there  to  feel  his  saving, 
comforting  and  renewing  power." 

44  Perhaps  so.  Nothing  is  impossible,"  said  Mrs. 
Sandford,  with  but  little  assent  in  her  voice.  "  But 
v./ho  is  to  lift  them  up  and  where  will  you  take  them  i* 
Let  us  instance  Mr.  Ridley  for  the  sake  of  illustra 
tion.  What  will  you  do  with  him  ?  How  will  you 
go  about  the  work  of  rescue  ?  Tell  me." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  had  nothing  to  propose.  She  only 
felt  an  intense  yearning  to  save  this  man,  and  in  her 
yearning  an  undefined  confidence  had  been  born 
There  must  be  a  way  to  save  even  the  most  wretched 
and  abandoned  of  human  beings,  if  we  could  but 
find  that  way,  and  so  she  would  not  give  up  her 
hope  of  Mr.  Ridley — nay,  her  hope  grew  stronger 
every  moment ;  and  to  all  the  suggestions  of  Mrs 
Sanford  looking  to  help  for  the  daughter  she  sup 
plemented  something  that  included  the  father,  and  so 
pressed  her  views  that  the  other  became  half  impa 
tient  and  exclaimed : 

"  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  miserable 
wretch  1" 

*l  Q 


242         Wounded  in  .he  House  of  a  Friend. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  went  away  with  a  heavy  heart  aftel 
leaving  a  small  sum  of  money  for  Mrs.  Sandford  to 
use  as  her  judgment  might  dictate,  saying  that  she 
would  call  and  see  her  again  in  a  few  days. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Brantly  Elliott  was  sitting  in  his 
pleasant  study,  engaged  in  writing,  when  a  servant 
opened  the  door  and  said : 

"  A  gentleman  wishes  to  see  you,  sir." 

"  What  name  ?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"  He  did  not  give  me  his  name.  I  asked  him,  but 
he  said  it  wasn't  any  matter.  I  think  he's  been 
drinking,  sir." 

"  Ask  him  to  send  his  name,"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  a 
slight  shade  of  displeasure  settling  over  his  pleasant 
face. 

The  servant  came  back  with  information  that  the 
visitor's  name  was  Ridley.  At  mention  of  this 
name  the  expression  on  Mr.  Elliott's  countenance 
changed : 

"  Did  you  say  he  was  in  liquor  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Shall  I  tell  him  that  you  cannot  sec 
him,  sir?" 

"  No.     Is  he  very  much  the  worse  for  drink  ?" 

"  He's  pretty  bad,  I  should  say,  sir." 

Mr.  Elliott  reflected  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
said : 

"  I  will  see  him." 

The  servant  retired.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came 
back,  and  opening  the  door,  let  the  visitor  pass  in. 
He  stood  for  a  few  moments  with  his  hand  on  the 


"The    man    who    now  stood    before    him   was    a    pitiabU 
object  indeed  •» 

PAGE  243. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        243 

door,  as  if  unwilling  to  leave  Mr.  Elliott  alone  with 
the  miserable-looking  creature  he  had  brought  to 
the  study.  Observing  him  hesitate,  Mr.  Elliott  said: 

"  That  will  do,  Richard." 

The  servant  shut  the  door,  and  he  was  alone  with 
Mr.  Ridley.  Of  the  man's  sad  story  he  was  not 
altogether  ignorant.  His  fall  from  the  high  position 
to  which  he  had  risen  in  two  years  and  utter  aban 
donment  of  himself  to  drink  were  matters  of  too 
much  notoriety  to  have  escaped  his  knowledge 
But  that  he  was  in  the  slightest  degree  responsible 
for  this  wreck  of  a  human  soul  was  so  far  from  his 
imagination  as  that  of  his  responsibility  for  the  last 
notorious  murder  or  bank-robbery. 

The  man  who  now  stood  before  him  was  a  piti 
able-looking  object  indeed.  Not  that  he  was  ragged 
or  filthy  in  attire  or  person.  Though  all  his  gar 
ments  were  poor  and  threadbare,  they  were  not  soiled 
nor  in  disorder.  Either  a  natural  instinct  of  per 
sonal  cleanliness  yet  remained  or  a  loving  hand  had 
cared  for  him.  But  he  was  pitiable  in  the  signs  of  a 
wrecked  and  fallen  manhood  that  were  visible  every 
where  about  him.  You  saw  it  most  in  his  face,  once 
so  full  of  strength  and  intelligence,  now  so  weak 
and  dull  and  disfigured.  The  mouth  so  mobile  and 
strong  only  a  few  short  months  before  was  now 
drooping  and  weak,  its  fine  chiseling  all  obliterated 
or  overlaid  with  fever  crusts.  His  eyes,  once  steady 
and  clear  as  eagles',  were  now  bloodshotten  and 
restless. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

He  stood  looking  fixedly  at  Mr.  Elliott,  and  with 
a  gleam  in  his  eyes  that  gave  the  latter  a  strange 
feeling  of  discomfort,  if  not  uneasiness. 

"  Mr.  Ridley ,"  said  the  clergyman,  advancing  to 
his  visitor  and  extending  his  hand.  He  spoke 
knully,  yet  with  a  reserve  that  could  not  be  laid 
aside.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

A  chair  was  offered,  and  Mr.  Ridley  sat  down. 
He  had  come  with  a  purpose ;  that  was  plain  from 
his  manner. 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  condition,  Mr. 
Ridley,"  said  the  clergyman,  who  felt  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  speak  a  word  of  reproof. 

"  In  what  condition,  sir?"  demanded  the  visitor, 
drawing  himself  up  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity. 
"  I  don't  understand  you." 

44  You  have  been  drinking,"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  in  a 
tone  of  severity. 

"No,  sir.  I  deny  it,  sir!"  and  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Ridley  flashed.  4t  Before  Heaven,  sir,  not  a  drop  has 
passed  my  lips  to-day  1" 

His  breath,  loaded  with  the  fumes  of  a  recent  glass 
of  whisky,  was  filling  the  clergyman's  nostrils.  Mr. 
Elliott  was  confounded  by  this  denial.  What  was 
to  be  done  with  such  a  man  ? 

"  Not  a  drop,  sir,"  repeated  Mr.  Ridley.  "  The 
vile  stuff  is  killing  me.  I  must  give  it  up." 

"It  is  your  only  hope,"  said  the  clergyman. 
'*  You  must  give  up  the  vile  stuff,  as  you  call  it,  or 
it  will  indeed  kill  you." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         245 

"That's  just  why  I've  come  to  you,  Mr.  Elliott 
You  understand  this  matter  better  than  most  people. 
I've  heard  you  talk." 

"  Heard  me  talk  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  It's  pure  wine  that  the  people  want. 
My  sentiments  exactly.  If  we  had  pure  wine,  we'd 
have  no  drunkenness.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I 
do.  I've  heard  you  talk,  Mr.  Elliott,  and  you  talk 
right — yes,  right,  sir." 

"  When  did  you  hear  me  talk  ?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott, 
who  was  beginning  to  feel  worried. 

"  Oh  at  a  party  last  winter.  I  was  there  and  heard 
you." 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"  Just  these  words,  and  they  took  right  hold  of 
me.  You  said  that  pure  wine  could  hurt  no  one,  un 
less  indeed  his  appetite  were  vitiated  by  the  use  of 
alcohol,  and  even  then  you  believed  that  the  mode 
rate  use  of  strictly  pure  wine  would  restore  the 
normal  taste  and  free  a  man  from  the  tyranny  of 
an  enslaving  vice.  That  set  me  to  thinking.  It 
sounded  just  right.  And  then  you  were  a  clergy 
man,  you  see,  and  had  studied  out  these  things,  and 
so  your  opinion  was  worth  something.  There's  no 
reason  in  your  cold-water  men ;  they  don't  believe  m 
anything  but  their  patent  cut-off.  In  their  eyes 
wine  is  an  abomination,  the  mother  of  all  evil, 
though  the  Bible  doesn't  say  so,  Mr.  Elliott,  does 
it?" 

At  this  reference  to  the  Bible  in  connection  with 

21  • 


246         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

wine,  the  clergyman's  memory  supplied  a  few  pas 
sages  that  were  not  at  the  moment  pleasant  to  recall. 
Such  as,  "  Wine  is  a  mocker ;"  "  Look  not  upon  the 
wine  when  it  is  red;"  "Who  hath  woe?  who  hath 
sorrow  ?  .  .  .  They  that  tarry  long  at  the  wine ;" 
"  At  last  it  biteth  like  a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like 
an  adder." 

"  The  Bible  speaks  often  of  the  misuse  of  wine," 
he  answered,  "and  strongly  condemns  drunkenness." 

"Of  course  it  does,  and  gluttony  as  well.  But 
against  the  moderate  use  of  good  wine  not  a  word 
is  said.  Isn't  that  so,  sir  ?" 

"Six  months  ago  you  were  a  sober  man,  Mr. 
Ridley,  and  a  useful  and  eminent  citizen.  Why  did 
you  not  remain  so  ?" 

Mr.  Elliott  almost  held  his  breath  for  the  answer. 
He  had  waived  the  discussion  into  which  his  vis 
itor  was  drifting,  and  put  his  question  almost  des 
perately. 

"  Because  your  remedy  failed."  Mr.  Ridley  spoke 
in  a  repressed  voice,  but  with  a  deliberate  utterance. 
There  was  a  glitter  in  his  eyes,  out  of  which  looked 
an  evil  triumph. 

"  My  remedy  ?     What  remedy  ?" 

"  The  good  wine  remedy.  I  tried  it  at  Mr.  Birt- 
well's  one  night  last  winter.  But  it  didn't  work 
And  here  I  am  /" 

Mr.  Elliott  made  no  reply.  A  blow  from  the  arm 
of  a  strong  man  could  not  have  hurt  or  stunned  him 
more. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        247 

"You  needn't  feel  so  dreadfully  about  it,"  said 
Mr.  Ridley,  seeing  the  effect  produced  on  the  clergy 
man.  "  It  wasn't  any  fault  of  yours.  The  prescrip 
tion  was  all  right,  but,  you  see,  the  wine  wasn't 
good.  If  it  had  been  pure,  the  kind  you  drink, 
all  would  have  been  well.  I  should  have  gained 
strength  instead  of  having  the  props  knocked  from 
under  me." 

But  Mr.  Elliott  did  not  answer.  The  magnitude 
of  the  evil  wrought  through  his  unguarded  speech 
appalled  him.  He  had  learned,  in  his  profession, 
to  estimate  the  value  of  a  human  soul,  or  rather  to 
consider  it  as  of  priceless  value.  And  here  was  a 
human  soul  cast  by  his  hand  into  a  river  whose 
swift  waters  were  hurrying  it  on  to  destruction.  The 
sudden  anguish  that  he  felt  sent  beads  of  sweat  to 
his  forehead  and  drew  his  flexible  lips  into  rigid 
lines. 

"  Now,  don't  be  troubled  about  it,"  urged  Mr.  Rid 
ley.  "  You  were  all  right.  It  was  Mr.  Birtwell's 
bad  wine  that  did  the  mischief." 

Then  his  manner  changed,  and  his  voice  falling 
to  a  tone  of  solicitation,  he  said : 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Elliott,  you  know  good  wine — 
you  don't  have  anything  else.  I  believe  in  your 
theory  as  much  as  I  believe  in  my  existence.  It 
stands  to  reason.  I'm  all  broken  up  and  run  down. 
Not  much  left  of  me,  you  see.  Bad  liquor  is  killing 
me,  and  I  can't  stop.  If  I  do,  I  shall  die.  God 
help  me !" 


248         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

His  voice  shook  now,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face 
quivered. 

"  Some  good  wine — some  pure  wine,  Mr.  Elliott  P 
he  went  on,  his  voice  rising  and  his  manner  becom 
ing  more  excited.  "  It's  all  over  with  me  unless  I 
can  get  pure  wine.  Save  me,  Mr.  Elliott,  save  me, 
for  God's  sake  !" 

The  miserable  man  held  out  his  hands  implor 
ingly.  There  was  a  wild  look  in  his  face.  He  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  One  glass  of  pure  wine,  Mr.  Elliott — just  one 
glass."  Thus  he  kept  on  pleading  for  the  stimulant 
his  insatiable  appetite  was  craving.  "  I'm  a  drown 
ing  man.  The  floods  are  about  me.  I  am  sinking 
in  dark  waters.  And  you  can  save  me  if  you  will !" 

Seeing  denial  still  on  the  clergyman's  face,  Mr.  Rid 
ley's  manner  changed,  becoming  angry  and  violent. 

"  You  will  not  ?"  he  cried,  starting  from  the  chair 
in  which  he  had  been  sitting  and  advancing  toward 
Mr.  Elliott. 

"  I  cannot.  I  dare  not.  You  have  been  drinking 
too  much  already,"  replied  the  clergyman,  stepping 
back  as  Mr.  Ridley  came  forward  until  he  reached 
the  bell-rope,  which  he  jerked  violently.  The  door 
of  his  study  opened  instantly.  His  servant,  not 
liking  the  visitor's  appearance,  had  remained  in  the 
hall  outside,  and  came  in  the  moment  he  heard  the 
bell.  On  seeing  him  enter,  Mr.  Ridley  turned  from 
the  clergyman  and  stood  like  one  at  bay.  His  eyes 
had  a  fiery  gleam  ;  there  was  anger  on  his  brow  and 


Wounded  in  the  Home  of  a  Friend.         249 

defiance  in  the  hard  lines  of  his  mouth.  He  scowled 
at  the  servant  threateningly.  The  latter,  a  strong 
and  resolute  man,  only  waited  for  an  order  to  re 
move  the  visitor,  which  he  would  have  done  in  a  very 
summary  way,  but  Mr.  Elliott  wanted  no  violence. 

The  group  formed  a  striking  tableau,  and  to  any 
spectator  who  could  have  viewed  it  one  of  intense 
interest.  For  a  little  while  Mr.  Ridley  and  the  ser 
vant  stood  scowling  at  each  other.  Then  came  a 
sudden  change.  A  start,  a  look  of  alarm,  followed  by 
i  low  cry  of  fear,  and  Mr.  Ridley  sprang  toward  the 
door,  and  was  out  of  the  room  and  hurrying  down 
stairs  before  a  movement  could  be  made  to  intercept 
him,  even  if  there  had  been  on  the  part  of  the  other 
two  men  any  wish  to  do  so. 

Mr.  Elliott  stood  listening  to  the  sound  of  his 
departing  feet  until  the  heavy  jar  of  the  outer  door 
resounded  through  the  passages  and  all  became  still. 
A  motion  of  his  hand  caused  the  servant  to  retire. 
As  he  went  out  Mr.  Elliott  sank  into  a  chair.  His 
face  had  become  pale  and  distressed.  He  was  sick 
at  heart  and  sorely  troubled.  What  did  all  this 
mean  ?  Had  his  unconsidered  words  brought  forth 
fruit  like  this  ?  Was  he  indeed  responsible  for  the 
fall  of  a  weak  brother  and  all  the  sad  and  sorrowful 
consequences  which  had  followed?  He  was  over 
whelmed,  crushed  down,  agonized  by  the  thought 
It  was  the  bitterest  moment  in  all  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MR.  ELLIOTT  still  sat  in  a  kind  of  helpless 
maze  when  his  servant  came  in  with  the  card 
of  Mrs.  Spencer  Birtwell.  He  read  the  name  almost 
with  a  start.  Nothing,  it  seemed  to  him,  could  have 
been  more  inopportune,  for  now  he  remembered  with 
painful  distinctness  that  it  was  at  the  party  given  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  that  Ridley  had  yielded  to 
temptation  and  fallen,  never,  he  feared,  to  rise  again. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  met  him  with  a  very  serious  aspect. 

"  I  am  in  trouble,"  was  the  first  sentence  that 
passed  her  lips  as  she  took  the  clergyman's  hand 
and  looked  into  his  sober  countenance. 

"About  what?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott. 

They  sat  down,  regarding  each  other  earnestly. 

"  Mr.  Elliott,"  said  the  lady,  with  solemn  impress- 
iveness,  "it  is  an  awful  thing  to  feel  that  through 
your  act  a  soul  may  be  lost'* 

Mrs.  Birtwell  saw  the  light  go  out  of  her  minis 
ter's  face  and  a  look  of  pain  sweep  over  it. 

"  An  awful  thing  indeed,"  he  returned,  in  a  voice 
that  betrayed  the  agitation  from  which  he  was  still 
suffering. 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  a  matter  that  dis 
tresses  me  deeply,"  said  Mrs.  Birtwell,  wondering 

250 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        251 

as  she  spoke  at  Mr.  Elliott's  singular  betrayal  of 
feeling. 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  I  shall  do  so  gladly,"  replied 
the  clergyman.  "What  is  the  ground  of  your 
trouble?" 

"  You  remember  Mr.  Ridley  ?" 

Mrs.  Birtwell  saw  the  clergyman  start  and  the 
spasm  of  pain  sweep  over  his  face  once  more. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  husky  whisper.  But  he 
rallied  himself  with  an  effort  and  asked, "  What  of 
him  ?"  in  a  clear  and  steady  voice. 

"  Mr.  Ridley  had  been  intemperate  before  coming 
to  the  city,  but  after  settling  here  he  kept  himself 
free  from  his  old  bad  habits,  and  was  fast  regaining 
the  high  position  he  had  lost.  I  met  his  wife  a  num 
ber  of  times.  She  was  a  very  superior  woman;  and 
the  more  I  saw  of  her,  the  more  I  was  drawn  to  her. 
We  sent  them  cards  for  our  party  last  winter.  Mrs. 
Ridley  was  sick  and  could  not  come.  Mr.  Ridley 
came,  and — and — "  Mrs.  Birtwell  lost  her  voice  for 
a  moment,  then  added :  "  You  know  what  I  would 
say.  We  put  the  cup  to  his  lips,  we  tempted  him 
with  wine,  and  he  fell." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
A  few  strong  sobs  shook  her  frame. 

"  He  fell,"  she  added  as  soon  as  she  could  recover 
herself,  "  and  still  lies,  prostrate  and  helpless,  in  the 
grasp  of  a  cruel  enemy  into  whose  power  we  be 
trayed  him." 

"  But   you   did   it    ignorantly,"   said    Mr.   Elliott 


252          \Voundcd  in  tJie  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  There  was  no  intention  on  your  part  to  betray 
him.  You  did  not  know  that  your  friend  was  his 
deadly  foe." 

"  My  friend  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Birtwell.  She  did 
not  take  his  meaning. 

"  The  wine,  I  mean.  While  to  you  and  me  it  may 
be  only  a  pleasant  and  cheery  friend,  to  one  like 
Mr.  Ridley  it  may  be  the  deadliest  of  enemies." 

"  An  enemy  to  most  people,  I  fear,"  returned  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  "  and  the  more  dangerous  because  a  hidden 
foe.  In  the  end  it  biteth  like  a  serpent  and  stingeth 
like  an  adder." 

Her  closing  sentence  cut  like  a  knife,  and  Mr. 
Elliott  felt  the  sharp  edge. 

"  He  fell,"  resumed  Mrs.  Birtwell,  "  but  the  hurt 
was  not  with  him  alone.  His  wife  died  on  the  next 
day,  and  it  has  been  said  that  the  condition  in  which 
he  came  home  from  our  house  gave  her  a  shock  that 
killed  her." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  shivered. 

"  People  say  a  great  many  things,"  returned  Mr. 
Elliott,  "  and  this,  I  doubt  not,  is  greatly  exagger 
ated.  Have  you  asked  Doctor  Hillhouse  in  regard 
to  the  facts  in  the  case  ?  He  attended  Mrs.  Ridley,  I 
think." 

"  No.     I've  been  afraid  to  ask  him." 

"  It  might  relieve  your  mind." 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  fe'el  any  better  if  he  said 
yea  instead  of  nay  ?  No,  Mr.  Elliott,  I  am  afraid  tc 
question  him." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         253 

"It's  a  sad  affair,"  remarked  the  clergyman, 
gloomily,  "  and  1  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done  about 
it.  When  a  man  falls  as  low  as  Mr.  Ridley  has 
fallen,  the  case  seems  hopeless." 

"  Don't  say  hopeless,  Mr.  Elliott,"  responded  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  her  voice  still  more  troubled.  "  Until  a 
man  is  dead  he  is  not  wholly  lost.  The  hand  of 
God  is  not  stayed,  and  he  can  save  to  the  uttermoot." 

"All  who  come  unto  him,"  added  the  clergyman, 
in  a  depressed  voice  that  had  in  it  the  knell  of  a 
human  soul.  "  But  these  besotted  men  will  not  go 
to  him.  I  am  helpless  and  in  despair  of  salvation 
when  I  stand  face  to  face  with  a  confirmed  drunkard. 
All  one's  care  and  thought  and  effort  seem  wasted. 
You  lift  them  up  to-day,  and  they  fall  to-morrow. 
Good  resolutions,  solemn  promises,  written  pledges, 
go  for  nothing.  They  seem  to  have  fallen  below  the 
sphere  in  which  God's  saving  power  operates." 

"  No,  no,  no,  Mr.  Elliott.  I  cannot,  I  will  not, 
believe  it,"  was  the  strongly-uttered  reply  of  Mrs. 
Birtwell.  "  I  do  not  believe  that  any  man  can  fall 
below  this  potent  sphere." 

A  deep  sigh  came  from  the  clergyman's  lips,  a 
dreary  expression  crept  into  his  face.  There  was  a 
heavy  weight  upon  his  heart,  and  he  felt  weak  and 
depressed. 

"Something  must  be  done."  There  was  the  im 
pulse  of  a  strong  resolve  in  Mrs.  Birtwell's  tones. 
"  God  works  by  human  agencies.  If  we  hold  back 
and  let  our  hands  lie  idle,  he  cannot  make  us  hi? 
22 


254         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

instruments.  If  we  say  that  this  poor  fallen  fellow- 
creature  cannot  be  lifted  out  of  his  degradation  and 
fcurn  away  that  he  may  perish,  God  is  powerless  to 
help  him  through  us.  Oh,  sir,  I  cannot  do  this  and  be 
conscience  clear.  I  helped  him  to  fall,  and,  God 
giving  me  strength,  I  will  help  him  to  rise  again." 

Her  closing  sentence  fell  with  rebuking  force  upon 
the  clergyman.  He  too  was  oppressed  by  a  heavy 
weight  of  responsibility.  If  the  sin  of  this  man's 
fall  was  upon  the  garments  of  Mrs.  Birtwell,  his 
were  not  stainless.  Their  condemnation  was  equal, 
their  duty  one. 

"  Ah !"  he  said,  in  tones  of  deep  solicitude,  "  if  we 
but  knew  how  to  reach  and  influence  him !" 

"  We  can  do  nothing  if  we  stand  afar  off,  Mr. 
Elliott,"  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell.  "We  must  try  to  get 
near  him.  He  must  see  our  outstretched  hands  and 
hear  our  voices  calling  to  him  to  come  back.  Oh, 
sir,  my  heart  tells  me  that  all  is  not  lost.  God's  lov 
ing  care  is  as  much  over  him  as  it  is  over  you  and 
me,  and  his  providence  as  active  for  his  salvation." 

"  How  are  we  to  get  near  him,  Mrs.  Birtwell  ? 
This  is  our  great  impediment." 

"  God  will  show  us  the  way  if  we  desire  it.  Nay, 
he  is  showing  us  the  way,  though  we  sought  it  not," 
replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  her  manner  becoming  more 
confident. 

"  How  ?  I  cannot  see  it,"  answered  the  clergy 
man. 

"  There  has  come  a  crisis  in  his  life,"  said  Mrs. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        255 

Birtwell.  "  In  his  downward  course  he  has  reached 
a  point  where,  unless  he  can  be  held  back  and 
rescued,  he  will,  I  fear,  drift  far  out  from  the  reach 
of  human  hands.  And  it  has  so  happened  that  I 
am  brought  to  a  knowledge  of  this  crisis  and  the 
great  peril  it  involves.  Is  not  this  God's  providence? 
I  verily  believe  so,  Mr.  Elliott.  In  the  very  depths 
of  my  soul  I  seem  to  hear  a  cry  urging  me  to  the 
rescue.  And,  God  giving  me  strength,  I  mean  to 
heed  the  admonition.  This  is  why  I  have  called  to 
day.  I  want  your  help  and  counsel." 

"  It  shall  be  given,"  was  the  clergyman's  answer, 
made  in  no  half-hearted  way.  "  And  now  tell  me 
all  you  know  about  this  sad  case.  What  is  the  nature 
of  the  crisis  that  has  come  in  the  life  of  this  un 
happy  man  ?" 

"  I  called  on  Mrs.  Sandford  this  morning,"  replied 
Mrs.  Birtwell,  "  and  learned  that  his  daughter,  who 
is  little  more  than  a  child,  had  applied  for  the  situa 
tion  of  day-governess  to  her  children.  From  Ethel 
she  ascertained  their  condition,  which  is  deplorable 
enough.  They  have  been  selling  or  pawning  furni 
ture  and  clothing  in  order  to  get  food  until  but  little 
remains,  and  the  daughter,  brought  face  to  face  with 
want,  now  steps  forward  to  take  the  position  of 
bread-winner." 

"  Has  Mrs.  Sandford  engaged  her?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Ethel  is  scarcely  more  than  a  child.     Deeply  as 


256        Wounded  in  the  PJouse  of  a  Friend. 

Mrs.  Sandford  feels  for  her,  she  cannot  give  her  a 
place  of  so  much  responsibility.  And  besides,  she 
does  not  think  it  right  to  let  her  remain  where  she 
is.  The  influence  upon  her  life  and  character  cannot 
be  good,  to  say  nothing  of  the  tax  and  burden  far 
beyond  her  strength  that  she  will  have  to  bear." 

"  Does  she  propose  anything  ?" 

"  Yes.  To  save  the  children  and  let  the  father  go 
to  destruction." 

"  She  would  take  them  away  from  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  thus  cutting  the  last  strand  of  the  cord  that 
held  him  away  from  utter  ruin." 

A  groan  that  could  not  be  repressed  broke  from 
Mr.  Elliott's  lips. 

"  This  must  not  be — at  least  not  now,"  added  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  in  a  firm  voice.  "  It  may  be  possible  to 
save  him  through  his  home  and  children.  But  if 
separated  from  them  and  cast  wholly  adrift,  what 
hope  is  left  ?" 

"  None,  I  fear,"  replied  Mr.  Elliott 

"Then  on  this  last  hope  will  I  build  my  faith  and 
work  for  his  rescue,"  said  Mrs.  Birtwell,  with  a  sol 
emn  determination;  "and  may  I  count  on  your 
help?" 

"  To  the  uttermost  in  my  power."  There  was 
nothing  half-hearted  in  Mr.  Elliott's  reply.  He 
meant  to  do  all  that  his  answer  involved. 

"Ah!"  remarked  Mrs.  Birtwell  as  they  talked 
still  farther  about  the  unhappy  case,  "  how  much 
easier  is  prevention  than  cure !  How.  much  easier  to 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         2$, 

keep  a  stumbling-block  out  of  another's  way  than 
to  set  him  on  his  feet  after  he  has  fallen !  Oh,  this 
curse  of  drink !" 

"  A  fearful  one  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  "  and  one 
that  is  desolating  thousands  of  homes  all  over  the 
land." 

"And  yet,"  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  with  a  bitter 
ness  of  tone  she  could  not  repress,  "  you  and  I  and 
some  of  our  best  citizens  and  church  people,  instead 
of  trying  to  free  the  land  from  this  dreadful  curse, 
strike  hands  with  those  who  are  engaged  in  spread 
ing  broadcast  through  society  its  baleful  infection." 

Mr.  Elliott  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  floor  like  one 
who  felt  the  truth  of  a  stinging  accusation,  and  re 
mained  silent  His  mind  was  in  great  confusion. 
Never  before  had  his  own  responsibility  for  this  great 
evil  looked  him  in  the  face  with  such  a  stern  aspect 
and  with  such  rebuking  eyes. 

"By  example  and  invitation — nay,  by  almost  irre 
sistible  enticements,"  continued  Mrs.  Birtwell — "  we 
tempt  the  weak  and  lure  the  unwary  and  break  down 
the  lines  of  moderation  that  prudence  sets  up  to  limit 
appetite.  I  need  not  describe  to  you  some  of  our 
social  saturnalias.  I  use  strong  language,  for  I  can 
not  help  it.  We  are  all  too  apt  to  look  on  their 
pleasant  side,  on  the  gayety,  good  cheer  and  bright 
reunions  by  which  they  are  attended,  and  to  excuse 
the  excesses  that  too  often  manifest  themselves.  We 
do  not  see  as  we  should  beyond  the  present,  and  ask 
ourselves  what  in  natural  result  is  going  to  be  the 
22  •  a 


258         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

outcome  of  all  this.  We  actually  shut  our  eyes 
and  turn  ourselves  away  from  the  warning  signs  and 
stern  admonitions  that  are  uplifted  before  us. 

"  Is  it  any  matter  of  surprise,  Mr.  Elliott,  that  we 
should  be  confronted  now  and  then  with  some  of  the 
dreadful  consequences  that  flow  inevitably  from  the 
causes  to  which  I  refer?  or  that  as  individual  parti 
cipants  in  these  things  we  should  find  ourselves  in 
volved  in  such  direct  personal  responsibility  as  to 
make  us  actually  shudder?" 

Mrs.  Birtwell  did  not  know  how  keen  an  edge 
these  sentences  had  for  Mr.  Elliott,  nor  how  deeply 
they  cut.  As  for  the  clergyman,  he  kept  his  own 
counsel. 

"  What  can  we  do  in  this  sad  case  ?"  he  asked, 
after  a  few  assenting  remarks  on  the  dangers  of  social 
drinking.     "  This  is  the  great  question  now.     I  con 
fess  to  being  entirely  at  a  loss.     I  never  felt  so  help 
less  in  the  presence  of  any  duty  before." 

"  I  suppose,"  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  "  that  the 
way  to  a  knowledge  of  our  whole  duty  in  any  case 
is  to  begin  to  do  the  first  thing  that  we  see  to  be 
right." 

"  Granted ;  and  what  then  ?  Do  you  see  the  first 
right  thing  to  be  done  ?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  If,  as  seems  plain,  the  separation  of  Mr.  Ridley 
from  his  home  and  children  is  to  cut  the  last  strand 
of  the  cord  that  holds  him  away  from  destr  action, 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        259 

then  our  first  work,  if  we  would  save  him,  is  to  help 
his  daughter  to  maintain  that  home." 

"Then  you  would  sacrifice  the  child  for  the  sake 
of  the  father  ?" 

"  No ;  I  would  help  the  child  to  save  her  father. 
I  would  help  her  to  keep  their  little  home  as  pleas 
ant  and  attractive  as  possible,  and  see  that  in  doing 
so  she  did  not  work  beyond  her  strength.  This 
first." 

"  And  what  next  ?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott. 

"After  I  have  done  so  much,  I  will  trust  God  to 
show  me  what  next.  The  path  of  duty  is  plain  so 
far.  If  I  enter  it  in  faith  and  trust  and  walk  whither 
it  leads,  I  am  sure  that  other  ways,  leading  higher 
and  to  regions  of  safety,  will  open  for  my  willing 
feet." 

"  God  grant  that  it  may  be  so,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Elliott,  with  a  fervor  that  showed  how  deeply  he  was 
interested.  "  I  believe  you  are  right.  The  slender 
mooring  that  holds  this  wretched  man  to  the  shore 
must  not  be  cut  or  broken.  Sever  that,  and  he  is 
swept,  I  fear,  to  hopeless  ruin.  You  will  see  his 
daughter  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  all  plain  now.  I  will  go  to  her  at 
once.  I  will  be  her  fast  friend.  I  will  let  my  heart 
go  out  to  her  as  if  she  were  my  own  child.  I  will 
help  her  to  keep  the  home  her  tender  and  loving 
heart  is  trying  to  maintain." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  now  spoke  with  an  eager  enthusiasm 
that  sent  the  warm  color  to  her  cheeks  and  made 


260         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

her  eyes,  so  heavy  and  sorrowful  a  little  while  be 
fore,  bright  and  full  of  hope. 

On  rising  to  go,  Mr.  Elliott  urged  her  to  do  all  in 
her  power  to  save  the  wretched  man  who  had  fallen 
over  the  stumbling-block  their  hands  had  laid  in  his 
way,  promising  on  his  part  all  possible  co-operation. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AS  Mrs.  Birtvvell  left  the  house  of  Mr.  Elliott  a 
slender  girl,  thinly  clad,  passed  from  the  beau 
tiful  residence  of  Mrs.  Sandford.  She  had  gone  in 
only  a  little  while  before  with  hope  in  her  pale 
young  face ;  now  it  had  almost  a  frightened  look. 
Her  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  lips  had  the  curve  of 
one  who  grieves  helplessly  and  in  silence.  Her 
steps,  as  she  moved  down  the  street,  were  slow  and 
unsteady,  like  the  steps  of  one  who  bore  a  heavy 
burden  or  of  one  weakened  by  long  illness.  In  her 
ears  was  ringing  a  sentence  that  had  struck  upon 
them  like  the  doom  of  hope.  It  was  this — and  it 
had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Sandford,  spoken 
with  a  cold  severity  that  was  more  assumed  than 
real — 

"  If  you  will  do  as  I  suggest,  I  will  see  that  you 
have  a  good  home ;  but  if  you  will  not,  I  can  do 
nothing  for  you." 

There  was  no  reply  on  the  part  of  the  young  girl, 
and  no  sign  of  doubt  or  hesitation.  All  the  light — 
it  had  been  fadi  ig  slowly  as  the  brief  conference 
between  her  and  Mrs.  Sandford  had  progressed — 
died  out  of  her  face.  She  shrunk  a  little  in  her 

261 


262          Wtitndcd  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

chair,  her  head  dropping  forward.  For  the  space  of 
half  a  minute  she  sat  with  eyes  cast  down.  Both 
were  silent,  Mrs.  Sandford  waiting  to  see  the  effect 
of  what  she  had  said,  and  hoping  it  would  work  a 
change  in  the  girl's  purpose.  But  she  was  disap 
pointed.  After  sitting  in  a  stunned  kind  of  way  for 
a  short  time,  she  rose,  and  without  trusting  herself 
to  speak  bowed  slightly  and  left  the  room.  Mrs. 
Sandford  did  not  call  after  the  girl,  but  suffered  her 
to  go  down  stairs  and  leave  the  house  without  an 
effort  to  detain  her. 

"She  must  gang  her  ain  gait,"  said  the  lady,  fret 
fully  and  with  a  measure  of  hardness  in  her  voice. 

On  reaching  the  street,  Ethel  Ridley — the  reader 
has  guessed  her  name — walked  away  with  slow,  un 
steady  steps.  She  felt  helpless  and  friendless.  Mrs. 
Sandford  had  offered  to  find  her  a  home  if  she 
would  abandon  her  father  and  little  brother.  The 
latter,  as  Mrs.  Sandford  urged,  could  be  sent  to  his 
mother's  relatives,  where  he  would  be  much  better 
off  than  now. 

Not  for  a  single  instant  did  Ethel  debate  the  prop 
osition.  Heart  and  soul  turned  from  it.  She  might 
die  in  her  effort  to  keep  a  home  for  her  wretched 
father,  but  not  till  then  had  she  any  thought  of  giv 
ing  up. 

On  leaving  the  house  of  Mr.  Elliott,  Mrs.  Birtwell 
went  home,  and  after  remaining  there  for  a  short 
time  ordered  her  carriage  and  drove  to  a  part  of  the 
town  lying  at  considerable  distance  fiom  that  in 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Fnend.         263 

which  she  lived.  Before  starting  she  had  given  her 
driver  the  name  of  the  street  and  number  of  the 
house  at  which  she  was  going  to  make  a  call.  The 
neighborhood  was  thickly  settled,  and  the  houses 
small  and  poor.  The  one  before  which  the  carnage 
drew  up  did  not  look  quite  so  forlorn  as  its  neigh 
bors  ;  and  on  glancing  up  at  the  second-story  win 
dows,  Mrs.  Birtwell  saw  two  or  three  flower-pots,  in 
one  of  which  a  bright  rose  was  blooming. 

"  This  is  the  place  you  gave  me,  ma'am,"  said  the 
driver 'as  he  held  open  the  door.  "Are  you  sure  it 
is  right  ?" 

"  I  presume  so ;"  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  stepped  out, 
and  crossing  the  pavement  to  the  door,  rang  the  bell. 
It  was  opened  by  a  pleasant-looking  old  woman, 
who,  on  being  asked  if  a  Miss  Ridley  lived  there, 
replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  You  will  find  her  in  the  front  room  up  stairs, 
ma'am,"  she  added.  "  Will  you  walk  up?" 

The  hall  into  which  Mrs.  Birtwell  passed  was  nar 
row  and  had  a  rag  carpet  on  the  floor.  But  the 
carpet  was  clean  and  the  atmosphere  pure.  Ascend 
ing  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Birtwell  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
was  answered  by  a  faint  "  Come  in  "  from  a  woman's 
voice. 

The  room  in  which  she  found  herself  a  moment 
afterward  was  almost  destitute  of  furniture.  There 
was  no  carpet  nor  bureau  nor  wash-stand,  only  a 
bare  floor,  a  very  plain  bedstead  and  bed,  a  square 
pine  table  and  three  chairs.  There  was  not  the 


264         Wounded  in  the  house  of  a  Friend. 

smallest  ornament  of  any  kind  on  the  mantel-shelfj 
but  in  the  windows  were  three  pots  of  flowers. 
Everything  looked  clean.  Some  work  lay  upon  the 
table,  near  which  Ethel  Ridley  was  sitting.  But  she 
had  turned  away  from  the  table,  and  sat  with  one 
pale  cheek  resting  on  her  open  hand.  Her  face  wore 
a  dreary,  almost  hopeless  expression.  On  seeing 
Mrs.  Birtwell,  she  started  up,  the  blood  leaping  in  a 
crimson  tide  to  her  neck,  cheeks  and  temples,  and 
stood  in  mute  expectation. 

"  Miss  Ridley  ?"  said  her  visitor,  in  a  kind  voice. 

Ethel  only  bowed.  She  could  not  speak  in  her 
sudden  surprise.  But  recovering  herself  in  a  few 
moments,  she  offered  Mrs.  Birtwell  a  chair. 

"  Mrs.  Sandford  spoke  to  me  about  you." 

As  Mrs.  Birtwell  said  this  she  saw  the  flush  die 
out  of  Ethel's  face  and  an  expression  of  pain  come 
over  it.  Guessing  at  what  this  meant,  she  added, 
quickly: 

"Mrs.  Sandford  and  I  do  not  think  alike.  You 
must  keep  your  home,  my  child." 

Ethel  gave  a  start  and  caught  her  breath.  A  look 
of  glad  surprise  broke  into  her  face. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  she  answered,  not  able  to  steady 
her  voice  or  keep  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes,  "  if  I 
can  only  do  that!  I  am  willing  to  work  if  I  can  find 
anything  to  do.  But — but — "  She  broke  down, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbing. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  was  deeply  touched.  How  could 
she  help  being  so  in  presence  of  the  desolation  and 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        265 

sorrow  for  which  she  felt  herself  and  husband  to  be 
largely  responsible  ? 

"  It  shall  all  be  made  plain  and  easy  for  you,  my 
dear  child,"  she  answered,  taking  Ethel's  hand  and 
kissing  her  with  almost  a  mother's  tenderness.  "  It 
is  to  tell  you  this  that  I  have  come.  You  are  too 
young  and  weak  to  bear  these  burdens  yourself. 
But  stronger  hands  shall  help  you." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Ethel  could  recover  her 
self  from  the  surprise  and  joy  awakened  by  so  unex 
pected  a  declaration.  When  she  comprehended  the 
whole  truth,  when  the  full  assurance  came,  the  change 
wrought  in  her  appearance  was  almost  marvelous, 
and  Mrs.  Birtwell  saw  before  her  a  maiden  of  singular 
beauty  with  a  grace  and  sweetness  of  manner  rarely 
found. 

The  task  she  had  now  to  perform  Mrs.  Birtwell 
found  a  delicate  one.  She  soon  saw  that  Ethel  had 
a  sensitive  feeling  of  independence,  and  that  in  aid 
ing  her  she  would  have  to  devise  some  means  of 
self-help  that  would  appear  to  be  more  largely  remu 
nerative  than  it  really  was.  From  a  simple  gratuity 
the  girl  shrank,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that 
she  was  able  to  induce  her  to  take  a  small  sum  of 
money  as  an  advance  on  some  almost  pretended  ser 
vice,  the  nature  of  which  she  would  explain  to  her 
on  the  next  day,  when  Ethel  was  to  call  at  her  house. 

So  Mrs.  Birtwell  took  her  first  step  in  the  new 
path  of  duty  wherein  she  had  set  her  feet.  For  the 
next  she  would  wait  and  pray  for  guidance.  She 

23 


266         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

had  not  ventured  to  say  much  to  Ethel  at  the  first 
interview  about  her  father.  The  few  questions  asked 
had  caused  such  evident  distress  of  mind  that  she 
deemed  it  best  to  wait  until  she  saw  Ethel  again  be 
fore  talking  to  her  more  freely  on  a  subject  th  it 
could  not  but  awaken  the  keenest  suffering. 

Mrs.  Birtwell's  experience  was  a  common  one. 
She  had  scarcely  taken  her  first  step  in  the  path 
of  duty  before  the  next  was  made  plain.  In  her 
case  this  was  so  marked  as  to  fill  her  with  surprise. 
She  had  undertaken  to  save  a  human  soul  wellnigh 
lost,  and  was  entering  upon  her  work  with  that  sin 
gleness  of  purpose  which  gives  success  where  suc 
cess  is  possible.  Such  being  the  case,  she  was  an 
instrument  through  which  a  divine  love  of  saving 
could  operate.  She  became,  as  it  were,  the  human 
hand  by  which  God  could  reach  down  and  grasp  a 
sinking  soul  ere  the  dark  waters  of  sin  and  sorrow 
closed  over  it  for  ever. 

She  was  sitting  alone  that  evening,  her  heart  full 
of  the  work  to  which  she  had  set  her  hand  and  her 
mind  beating  about  among  many  suggestions,  none 
of  which  had  any  reasonable  promise  of  success, 
when  a  call  from  Mr.  Elliott  was  announced.  This 
was  unusual.  What  could  it  mean  ?  Naturally  she 
associated  it  with  Mr.  Ridley.  She  hurried  down  to 
meet  him,  her  heart  beating  rapidly.  As  she  en 
tered  the  parlor  Mr.  Elliott,  who  was  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  advanced  quickly  toward  her 
and  grasped  her  hand  with  a  strong  pressure.  His 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        267 

manner  was  excited  and  there  was  a  glow  of  unusual 
interest  on  his  face  : 

"  I  have  just  heard  something  that  I  wish  to 
talk  with  you  about.  There  is  hope  for  our  poor 
friend." 

"  For  Mr.  Ridley  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell,  catching 
the  excitement  of  her  visitor. 

"  Yes,  and  God  grant  that  it  may  not  be  a  vain 
hope !"  he  added,  with  a  prayer  in  his  heart  as  well 
as  upon  his  lips. 

They  sat  down  and  the  clergyman  went  on : 

"  I  have  had  little  or  no  faith  in  any  of  the  efforts 
which  have  been  made  to  reform  drunkenness,  far 
none  of  them,  in  my  view,  went  down  to  the  core  of 
the  matter.  I  know  enough  of  human  nature  and 
its  depravity,  of  the  power  of  sensual  allurement 
and  corporeal  appetite,  to  be  very  sure  that  pledges, 
and  the  work  usually  done  for  inebriates  in  the  asy 
lums  established  for  their  benefit,  cannot,  except  in 
a  few  cases,  be  of  any  permanent  good.  No  man 
who  has  once  been  enslaved  by  any  inordinate  appe 
tite  can,  in  my  view,  ever  get  beyond  the  danger  of 
re-enslavement  unless  through  a  change  wrought 
in  him  by  God,  and  this  can  only  take  place  after  a 
prayerful  submission  of  himself  to  God  and  obe 
dience  to  his  divine  laws  so  far  as  lies  in  his 
power.  In  other  words,  Mrs.  Birtwell,  the  Church 
must  come  to  his  aid.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I 
have  never  had  much  faith  in  temperance  societies 
as  agents  of  personal  reformation.  To  lift  up  from 


268         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

any  evil  is  the  work  of  the  Church,  and  in  her  lies 
the  only  true  power  of  salvation." 

"  But/'  said  Mrs.  Birtwell,  "  is  not  all  work  which 
has  for  its  end  the  saving  of  man  from  evil  God's 
work  ?  It  is  surely  not  the  work  of  an  enemy." 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  so.  Every  saving 
effort,  no  matter  how  or  when  made,  is  work  for 
God  and  humanity.  Do  not  misunderstand  me.  I 
say  nothing  against  temperance  societies.  They 
have  done  and  are  still  doing  much  good,  and  I 
honor  the  men  who  organize  and  work  through 
them.  Their  beneficent  power  is  seen  in  a  changea 
and  changing  public  sentiment,  in  efforts  to  reach 
the  sources  of  a  great  and  destructive  evil,  and  espe 
cially  in  their  conservative  and  restraining  influence. 
But  when  a  man  is  overcome  of  the  terrible  vice 
against  which  they  stand  in  battle  array,  when  he  is 
struck  down  by  the  enemy  and  taken  prisoner,  a 
stronger  hand  than  theirs  is  needed  to  rescue  him, 
even  the  hand  of  God ;  and  this  is  why  I  hold  that, 
except  in  the  Church,  there  is  little  or  no  hope  for 
the  drunkard." 

"  But  we  cannot  bring  these  poor  fallen  creatures 
into  the  Church,"  answered  Mrs.  Birtwell.  "  They 
shun  its  doors.  They  stand  afar  off." 

"  The  Church  must  go  to  them,"  said  Mr.  Elliott — 
*  go  as  Christ,  the  great  Head  of  the  Church,  him 
self  went  to  the  lowest  and  the  vilest,  and  lift  them 
up,  and  not  only  lift  them  up,  but  encompass  them 
round  with  its  saving  influences." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        269 

"  How  is  this  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell. 

"  That  has  been  our  great  and  difficult  problem ; 
aut,  thank  God!  it  is,  I  verily  believe,  now  being 
solved." 

"How?  Where?"  eagerly  asked  Mrs.  Birtueil. 
"  What  Church  has  undertaken  the  work  ?" 

"  A  Church  not  organized  for  worship  and  spiritual 
culture,  but  with  a  single  purpose  to  go  into  the 
wilderness  and  desert  places  in  search  of  lost  sheep, 
and  bring  them,  if  possible,  back  to  the  fold  of  God. 
I  heard  of  it  only  to-day,  though  for  more  than  a 
year  it  has  been  at  work  in  our  midst.  Men  and 
women  of  nearly  every  denomination  have  joined  in 
the  organization  of  this  church,  and  are  working  to 
gether  in  love  and  unity.  Methodists,  Episcopalians, 
Baptists,  Presbyterians,  Swedenborgians,  Congrega- 
tionalists,  Universalists  and  Unitarians,  so  called, 
here  clasp  hands  in  a  common  Christian  brother 
hood,  and  give  themselves  to  the  work  of  saving  the 
lost  and  lifting  up  the  fallen." 

"Why  do  you  call  it  a  Church?"  asked  Mrs. 
Birtwell. 

"  Because  it  was  founded  in  prayer  to  God,  and 
with  the  acknowledgment  that  all  saving  power 
must  come  from  him.  Men  of  deep  religious  ex 
perience  whose  hearts  yearned  over  the  hapless 
condition  of  poor  drunkards  met  together  and 
prayed  for  light  and  guidance.  They  were  willing 
to  devote  themselves  to  the  task  of  saving  these  un 
happy  men  if  God  would  show  them  the  way.  And 

2'6* 


2/O        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

I  verily  believe  that  he  has  shown  them  the  way 
They  have  established  a  Christian  Home,  not  a  mere 
inebriate  asylum." 

As  he  spoke  Mr.  Elliott  drew  a  paper  from  hia 
pocket. 

"Let  me  read  you,"  he  said,  "a  few  sentences 
from  an  article  giving  an  account  of  the  work  of  this 
Church,  as  I  have  called  it.  I  only  met  with  it  to 
day,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  have  taken 
such  a  hold  upon  me  had  it  not  been  for  my  concern 
about  Mr.  Ridley. 

"  The  writer  says,  '  In  the  treatment  of  drunken 
ness,  we  must  go  deeper  than  hospital  or  asylum 
work.  This  reaches  no  farther  than  the  physical 
condition  and  moral  nature,  and  can  therefore  be 
only  temporary  in  its  influence.  We  must  awaken 
the  spiritual  consciousness,  and  lead  a  man  too  weak 
to  stand  in  his  own  strength  when  appetite,  held 
only  in  abeyance,  springs  back  upon  him  to  trust  in 
God  as  his  only  hope  of  permanent  reformation. 
First  we  must  help  him  physically,  we  must  take 
him  out  of  his  debasement,  his  foulness  and  his  dis 
comfort,  and  surround  him  with  the  influences  of  a 
home.  Must  get  him  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind, 
and  make  him  feel  once  more  that  he  has  sympathy 
— is  regarded  as  a  man  full  of  the  noblest  possibili 
ties — and  so  be  stimulated  to  personal  effort.  But 
this  is  only  preliminary  work,  such  as  any  hospital 
may  do.  The  real  work  of  salvation  goes  far  beyond 
this ;  it  must  be  wrought  in  a  higher  degree  of  the 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         271 

soul — even  that  which  we  call  spiritual.  The  man 
must  be  taught  that  only  in  Heaven-given  strength 
is  there  any  safety.  He  must  be  led,  in  his  weak 
ness  and  sense  of  degradation,  to  God  as  the  only 
one  who  can  lift  him  up  and  set  his  feet  in  a  safe 
place.  Not  taught  this  as  from  pulpit  and  platfp,rm, 
but  by  earnest,  self-denying,  sympathising  Christian, 
men  and  women  standing  face  to  face  with  the  poqr 
repentant  brother,  and  holding  him  tightly  by  the 
hand  lest  he  stumble  and  fall  in  his  first  weak  efforts 
to  walk  in  a  better  way.  And  this  is  just  the  work 
that  is  now  being  done  in  our  city  by  a  Heaven-in*- 
spired  institution  not  a  year  old,  but  with  accomi- 
plished  results  that  are  a  matter  of  wonder  to  all  who 
are  familiar  with  its  operations.' " 

Mrs.  Birtwell  leaned  toward  Mr.  Elliott  as  Le 
read,  the  light  of  a  new  hope  irradiating  her  coun 
tenance. 

"  Is  not  this  a  Church  in  the  highest  and  best 
sense  ?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott,  with  a  glow  of  enthusiasm 
in  his  voice. 

"  It  is ;  and  if  the  membership  is  not  full,  I  am 
going  to  join  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  "  and  do 
what  I  can  to  bring  at  least  one  straying  sheep  out 
of  the  wilderness  and  into  its  fold." 

"  And  I  pray  God  that  your  work  be  not  in  vain," 
said  the  clergyman.  "  It  is  that  I  might  lead  you  to 
this  work  that  I  am  now  here.  Some  of  the  Chris 
tian  men  and  women  whose  names  I  find  here"-— 
Mr.  Elliott  referred  to  the  paper  in  his  hand — "are 


2/2         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

well  known  to  me  personally,  and  others  by  reputa 
tion." 

He  read  them  over. 

"Such  names,"  he  added,  "give  confidence  and 
assurance.  In  the  hands  of  these  men  and  women, 
the  best  that  can  be  done  will  be  done.  And  what 
is  to  hinder  if  the  presence  and  the  power  of  God  be 
in  their  work  ?  Whenever  two  or  three  meet  to 
gether  in  his  name,  have  they  not  his  promise  to  be 
with  them  ?  and  when  he  is  present,  are  not  all  sav 
ing  influences  most  active  ?  Present  we  know  him  to 
be  everywhere,  but  his  presence  and  power  have  a 
different  effect  according  to  the  kind  and  degree 
of  reception.  He  is  present  with  the  evil  as  well  as 
the  good,  but  he  can  manifest  his  love  and  work  of 
saving  far  more  effectually  through  the  good  than 
he  can  through  the  evil. 

"And  so,  because  this  Home  has  been  made  a 
Christian  Home,  and  its  inmates  taught  to  believe 
that  only  in  coming  to  God  in  Christ  as  their  infinite 
divine  Saviour,  and  touching  the  hem  of  his  garments, 
is  there  any  hope  of  being  cured  of  their  infirmity, 
has  its  great  saving  power  become  manifest." 

Just  then  voices  were  heard  sounding  through  the 
hall.  Apparently  there  was  an  altercation  between 
the  waiter  and  some  one  at  the  street  door. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell,  a  little 
startled  at  the  unusual  sound. 

They  listened,  and  heard  the  voice  of  a  man  say 
ing,  in  an  excited  tone  : 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        273 

"  I  must  see  her  !" 

Then  came  the  noise  of  a  struggle,  as  though  the 
waiter  were  trying  to  prevent  the  forcible  entry  of 
some  one. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  started  to  her  feet  in  evident  alarm. 
Mr.  Elliott  was  crossing  to  the  parlor  door,  when  it 
was  thrown  open  with  considerable  violence,  and  he 
stood  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Ridley. 

8 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ON  leaving  the  clergyman's  residence,  baffleJ  in 
his  efforts  to  get  the  wine  he  had  hoped  to  ob 
tain,  Mr.  Ridley  strode  hurriedly  away,  almost  run 
ning,  as  though  in  fear  of  pursuit.  After  going  for 
a  block  or  two,  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  stood  with 
an  irresolute  air  for  several  moments.  Then  he 
started  forward  again,  moving  with  the  same  rapid 
speed.  His  face  was  strongly  agitated  and  nearly 
colorless.  His  eyes  were  restless,  glancing  perpet 
ually  from  side  to  side. 

There  was  no  pause  now  until  he  reached  the 
doors  of  a  large  hotel  in  the  centre  of  the  city.  En 
tering,  he  passed  first  into  the  reading-room  and 
looked  through  it  carefully,  then  stood  in  the 
office  for  several  minutes,  as  if  waiting  for  some  one. 
While  here  a  gentleman  who  had  once  been  a  client 
came  in,  and  was  going  to  the  clerk's  desk  to  make 
some  inquiry,  when  Ridley  stepped  forward,  and  call 
ing  him  by  name,  reached  out  his  hand.  It  was  not 
taken,  however.  The  man  looked  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  annoyance  and  disgust,  and  then  passed 
him  without  a  word. 

A  slight  tinge  of  color  came  into  Ridley's  pale 
face.  He  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  hands  ner- 

274 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        275 

vously.  From  the  office  he  went  to  the  bar-room, 
At  the  door  he  met  a  well-known  lawyer  with  whom 
he  had  crossed  swords  many  times  in  forensic  battles, 
oftener  gaining  victory  than  suffering  defeat.  There 
was  a  look  of  pity  in  the  eyes  of  this  man  when  they 
rested  upon  him.  He  suffered  his  hand  to  be  taken 
by  the  poor  wretch,  and  even  spoke  to  him  kindly. 

"  B ,"  said  Ridley  as  he  held  up  one  of  his 

hands  and  showed  its  nerveless  condition,  "  you  see 
where  I  am  going  ?" 

"  I  do,  my  poor  fellow !"  replied  the  man  ;  "  and  if 
you  don't  stop  short,  you  will  be  at  the  end  of  your 
journey  sooner  than  you  anticipate." 

"  I  can't  stop ;  it's  too  late.  For  God's  sake  get 
me  a  glass  of  brandy !  I  haven't  tasted  a  drop  since 
morning." 

His  old  friend  and  associate  saw  how  it  was — saw 
that  his  over-stimulated  nervous  system  was  fast  giv 
ing  way,  and  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  mania. 
Without  replying  the  lawyer  went  back  to  the  bar, 
at  which  he  had  just  been  drinking.  Calling  for 
brandy,  he  poured  a  tumbler  nearly  half  full,  and  after 
adding  a  little  water  gave  it  to  Ridley,  who  drank  the 
whole  of  it  before  withdrawing  the  glass  from  his 
lips. 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  the  wretched  man 
as  he  began  to  feel  along  his  shaking  nerves  the 
stimulating  power  of  the  draught  he  had  taken.  "  I 
was  in  a  desperate  bad  way." 

44  And  you  are  not  out  of  that  way  yet,"  replied 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

the  other.  "  Why  don't  you  stop  this  thing  while  a 
shadow  of  hope  remains  ?" 

"  It's  easy  enough  to  say  stop  " — Ridley  spoke  in 
a  tone  of  fretfulness — "  and  of  about  as  much  use  as 
to  cry  'Stop!'  to  a  man  falling  down  a  precipice  or 
sweeping  over  a  cataract.  I  can't  stop." 

His  old  friend  gazed  at  him  pityingly,  then,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders,  he  bade  him  good-morning. 
From  the  bar  Ridley  drifted  to  the  reading-room, 
where  he  made  a  feint  of  looking  over  the  news 
papers.  What  cared  he  for  news?  All  his  interest 
in  the  world  had  become  narrowed  down  to  the  ways 
and  means  of  getting  daily  enough  liquor  to  stupefy 
his  senses  and  deaden  his  nerves.  He  only  wanted 
to  rest  now,  and  let  the  glass  of  brandy  he  had  taken 
do  its  work  on  his  exhausted  system.  It  was  not 
long  before  he  was  asleep.  How  long  he  remained 
in  this  state  he  did  not  know.  A  waiter,  rudely 
shaking  him,  brought  him  back  to  life's  dreary  con 
sciousness  again,  and  an  order  to  leave  the  reading- 
room  sent  him  out  upon  the  street  to  go  he  knew 
not  whither. 

Night  had  come,  and  Ethel,  with  a  better  meal 
ready  for  her  father  than  she  had  been  able  to  pre 
pare  for  him  in  many  weeks,  sat  anxiously  awaiting 
his  return.  Toward  her  he  had  always  been  kind 
and  gentle.  No  matter  how  much  he  might  be 
under  the  influence  of  liquor,  he  had  never  spoken 
a  harsh  word  to  this  patient,  loving,  much-enduring 
child.  For  her  sake  he  had  often  made  feeble  efforts 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         277 

at  reform,  but  appetite  had  gained  such  mastery  over 
him  that  resolution  was  as  flax  in  the  flame. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  Mr.  Ridley  re 
turned  home.  Ethel's  quick  ears  detected  some 
thing  unusual  in  his  steps  as  he  came  along  the  entry. 
Instead  of  the  stumbling  or  shuffling  noise  with  which 
he  generally  made  his  way  up  stairs,  she  noticed  that 
his  footfalls  were  more  distinct  and  rapid.  With 
partially  suspended  breath  she  sat  with  her  eyes  upon 
the  door  until  it  was  pushed  open.  The  moment 
she  looked  into  her  father's  face  she  saw  a  change. 
Something  had  happened  to  him.  The  heavy,  be 
sotted  look  was  gone,  the  dull  eyes  were  lighted  up. 
He  shut  the  door  behind  him  quickly  and  with  the 
manner  of  one  who  had  been  pursued  and  now  felt 
himself  in  a  place  of  safety. 

"What's  the  matter,  father  dear?"  asked  Ethel  as 
she  started  up  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoul 
der  looked  into  his  face  searchingly. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  he  replied.  But  the  nervous 
ness  of  his  manner  and  the  restless  glancing  of  his 
eyes,  now  here  and  now  there,  and  the  look  of  fear 
in  them,  contradicted  his  denial. 

"What  has  happened,  father?  Are  you  sick?" 
inquired  Ethel. 

"  No,  dear,  nothing  has  happened.  But  I  feel  a 
little  strange." 

He  spoke  with  unusual  tenderness  in  his  manner, 
and  his  voice  shook  and  had  a  mournful  cadence. 

"  Supper  is  all  ready  and  waiting.     I've  got  some- 

24 


278        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Fnend. 

thing  nice  and  hot  for  you.  A  strong  cup  of  tea 
will  do  you  good,"  said  Ethel,  trying  to  speak  cheer 
ily.  She  had  her  father  at  the  table  in  a  few  min 
utes.  His  hand  trembled  so  in  lifting  his  cup  that 
he  spilled  some  of  the  contents,  but  she  steadied  it 
for  him.  He  had  better  control  of  himself  after 
drinking  the  tea,  and  ate  a  few  mouthfuls,  but  with 
out  apparent  relish. 

"  I've  got  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Ethel,  lean 
ing  toward  her  father  as  they  still  sat  at  the  table. 
Mr.  Ridley  saw  a  new  light  in  his  daughter's  face. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Birtwell  was  here  to-day,  and  is  going — " 

The  instant  change  observed  in  her  father's  man 
ner  arrested  the  sentence  on  Ethel's  lips.  A  dark 
shadow  swept  across  his  face  and  he  became  visibly 
agitated. 

"  Going  to  do  what  ?"  he  inquired,  betraying  some 
anger. 

"  Going  to  help  me  all  she  can.  She  was  very 
kind,  and  wants  me  to  go  and  see  her  to-morrow.  I 
think  she's  very  good,  father." 

Mr.  Ridley  dropped  his  eyes  from  the  flushed,  ex 
cited  face  of  his  child.  The  frown  left  his  brow. 
He  seemed  to  lose  himself  in  thought.  Leaning 
forward  upon  the  table,  he  laid  his  face  down  upon 
his  folded  arms,  hiding  it  from  view. 

A  sad  and  painful  conflict,  precipitated  by  the 
remark  of  his  daughter,  was  going  on  in  the  mind  of 
this  wretched  man.  He  knew  also  too  well  that  he 


Wounded  in  tlte  House  of  a  Friend.         279 

was  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  dreadful  condition 
from  the  terrors  of  which  his  soul  shrunk  back  in 
shuddering  fear.  All  day  he  had  felt  the  coming 
signs,  and  the  hope  of  escape  had  now  left  him. 
But  love  for  his  daughter  was  rising  above  all  per 
sonal  fear  and  dread.  He  knew  that  at  any  mo 
ment  the  fiend  of  delirium  might  spring  upon  him, 
and  then  this  tender  child  would  be  left  alone  with 
him  in  his  awful  conflict.  The  bare  possibility  of 
such  a  thing  made  him  shudder,  and  all  his  thought 
was  now  directed  toward  the  means  of  saving  her 
from  being  a  witness  of  the  appalling  scene. 

The  shock  and  anger  produced  by  the  mention  of 
Mrs.  Birtwell's  name  had  passed  off,  and  his  thought 
was  going  out  toward  her  in  a  vague,  groping  way, 
and  in  a  sort  of  blind  faith  that  through  her  help  in 
his  great  extremity  might  come.  It  was  all  folly,  he 
knew.  What  could  she  do  for  a  poor  wretch  in  his 
extremity  ?  He  tried  to  turn  his  thought  from  her, 
but  ever  as  he  turned  it  away  it  swung  back  and 
rested  in  this  blind  faith. 

Raising  his  eyes  at  last,  his  mind  still  in  a  maze 
of  doubt,  he  saw  just  before  him  on  the  table  a  small 
grinning  head.  It  was  only  by  a  strong  effort  that 
he  could  keep  from  crying  out  in  fear  and  starting 
back  from  the  table.  A  steadier  look  obliterated  the 
head  and  left  a  teacup  in  its  place. 

No  time  was  now  to  be  lost.  At  any  moment  the 
enemy  might  be  upon  him.  He  must  go  quickly, 
but  where  ?  A  brief  struggle  against  an  almost  un 


280         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Fnend. 

conquerable  reluctance  and  dread,  and  then,  rising 
from  the  table,  Mr.  Ridley  caught  up  his  hat  and  ran 
down  stairs,  Ethel  calling  after  him.  He  did  not 
heed  her  anxious  cries.  It  was  for  her  sake  that  he 
was  going.  She  heard  the  street  door  shut  with  a 
jar,  and  listened  to  her  father's  departing  feet  until 
the  sound  died  out  in  the  distance. 

It  was  over  an  hour  from  this  time  when  Mr.  Rid 
ley,  forcing  his  way  past  the  servant  who  had  tried 
to  keep  him  back,  stood  confronting  Mr.  Elliott.  A 
look  of  disappointment,  followed  by  an  angry  cloud, 
came  into  his  face.  But  seeing  Mrs.  Birtwell,  his 
countenance  brightened ;  and  stepping  past  the  cler 
gyman,  he  advanced  toward  her.  She  did  not  retreat 
from  him,  but  held  out  her  hand,  and  said,  with  an 
earnestness  so  genuine  that  it  touched  his  feeling : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ridley." 

As  he  took  her  extended  hand  Mrs.  Birtwell  drew 
him  toward  a  sofa  and  sat  down  near  him,  manifest 
ing  the  liveliest  interest. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  in  a  mournful  voice — 
"  not  for  me.  I  didn't  come  for  that.  But  you'll  be 
good  to  my  poor  Ethel,  won't  you,  and — and — " 

His  voice  broke  into  sobs,  his  weak  frame  quiv 
ered. 

"  I  will,  I  will !"  returned  Mrs.  Birtwell  with  prompt 
assurance. 

"  Oh,  thank  you.  It's  so  good  of  you.  My  poor 
girl !  I  may  never  see  you  again." 


Wour&d  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         281 

The  start  and  glance  of  fear  he  now  threw  across 
the  room  revealed  to  Mr.  Elliott  the  true  condition 
of  their  visitor,  and  greatly  alarmed  him.  He  had 
never  been  a  witness  of  the  horrors  of  delirium  tretn- 
ens,  and  only  knew  of  it  by  the  frightful  descrip 
tions  he  had  sometimes  read,  but  he  could  not  mis 
take  the  symptoms  of  the  coming  attack  as  now  seen 
in  Mr.  Ridley,  who,  on  getting  from  Mrs.  Birtwell  a 
repeated  and  stronger  promise  to  care  for  Ethel,  rose 
from  the  sofa  and  started  for  the  door. 

But  neither  Mr.  Elliott  nor  Mrs.  Birtwell  could  let 
him  go  away  in  this  condition.  They  felt  too  deeply 
their  responsibility  in  the  case,  and  felt  also  that  One 
who  cares  for  all,  even  the  lowliest  and  most  aban 
doned,  had  led  him  thither  in  his  dire  extremity. 

Following  him  quickly,  Mr.  Elliott  laid  his  hand 
firmly  upon  his  arm. 

"  Stop  a  moment,  Mr.  Ridley,"  he  said,  with  such 
manifest  interest  that  the  wretched  man  turned  and 
looked  at  him  half  in  surprise. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"  Where  ?"  His  voice  fell  to  a  deep  whisper. 
There  was  a  look  of  terror  in  his  eyes.  "  Where  ? 
God  only  knows.  Maybe  to  hell." 

A  strong  shiver  went  through  his  frame. 

"The  'Home/  Mr.  Elliott!  We  must  get  him 
into  the  '  Home,' "  said  Mrs.  Birtwell,  speaking  close 
to  the  minister's  ear. 

"What  home?"  asked  Mr.  Ridley,  turning  quickly 
upon  her. 

24* 


282         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Fnend. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  feared  to  say  a 
"  Home  for  inebriates,"  lest  he  should  break  from 
them  in  anger. 

"  What  home  ?"  he  repeated,  in  a  stronger  and 
more  agitated  voice ;  and  now  both  Mr.  Elliott  and 
Mrs.  Birtwell  saw  a  wild  eagerness  in  his  manner. 

"  A  home,"  replied  Mr.  Elliott,  "  where  men  like 
you  can  go  and  receive  help  and  sympathy.  A  home 
where  you  will  find  men  of  large  and  hopeful  nature 
to  take  you  by  the  hand  and  hold  you  up,  and  Chris 
tian  women  with  hearts  full  of  mother  and  sister 
love  to  comfort,  help,  encourage  and  strengthen  all 
your  good  desires.  A  home  in  which  men  in  your 
unhappy  condition  are  made  welcome,  and  in  which 
they  are  cared  for  wisely  and  tenderly  in  their  great 
est  extremity." 

"  Then  take  me  there,  for  God's  sake !"  cried  out 
the  wretched  man,  extending  his  hand  eagerly  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Order  the  carriage  immediately,"  said  Mrs.  Birt 
well  to  the  servant  who  stood  in  the  half-open  parlor 
door. 

Then  she  drew  Mr.  Ridley  back  to  the  sofa,  from 
which  he  had  started  up  a  little  while  before,  and  said, 
in  a  voice  full  of  comfort  and  persuasion : 

"You  shall  go  there,  and  I  will  come  and  see 
you  every  day ;  and  you  needn't  have  a  thought  or 
care  for  Ethel.  All  is  going  to  come  out  right 
again." 

The  carriage  came  in  a  few  minutes.     There  was 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        283 

no  hesitation  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Ridley.  The  excite 
ment  of  this  new  hope  breaking  in  so  suddenly  upon 
the  midnight  of  his  despair  acted  as  a  temporary 
stimulant  and  held  his  nerves  steady  for  a  little  while 
longer. 

"  You  are  not  going?"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  seeing  that 
Mrs.  Birtwell  was  making  ready  to  accompany  them 
in  the  carriage. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  I  want  to  see  just  what  this 
home  is  and  how  Mr.  Ridley  is  going  to  be  received 
and  cared  for." 

She  then  directed  their  man-servant  to  get  into 
the  carriage  w<th  them,  and  they  drove  away.  Mr. 
Ridley  did  not  stir  nor  speak,  but  sat  with  his  head 
bent  down  until  they  arrived  at  their  destination. 
He  left  the  carriage  and  went  in  passively.  As  they 
entered  a  large  and  pleasant  reception-room  a  gen 
tleman  stepped  forward,  and  taking  Mr.  Elliott  by  the 
hand,  called  him  by  name  in  a  tone  of  pleased  sur 
prise. 

"Oh,  Mr.  G !"  exclaimed  the  clergyman.  "  I 

am  right  glad  to  find  you  here.  I  remember  seeing 
your  name  in  the  list  of  directors." 

"  Yes,  I  am  one  of  the  men  engaged  in  this  work," 

replied  Mr.  G .  Then,  as  he  looked  more  closely 

at  Mr.  Ridley,  he  recognized  him  and  saw  at  a  glance 
his  true  condition. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  stepping  forward  and  grasp 
ing  his  hand,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  come  here." 

Mr.  Ridley  looked  at,  or  rather  beyond,  him  in  a 


284         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

startled  way,  and  then  drew  back  a  few  steps.  Mr. 

G saw  him  shiver  and  an  expression  of  fear 

cross  his  face.  Turning  to  a  man  who  sat  writing 
at  a  desk,  he  called  him  by  name,  and  with  a  single 
glance  directed  his  attention  to  Mr.  Ridley.  The 
man  was  by  his  side  in  a  moment,  and  as  Mr.  Elliott 
did  not  fail  to  notice  all  on  the  alert.  Me  spoke  to 
Mr.  Ridley  in  a  kind  but  firm  voice,  and  drew  him  a 
little  way  toward  an  adjoining  room,  the  door  of 
which  stood  partly  open. 

"  Do  the  best  you  can  for  this  poor  man,"  said 

Mrs.  Birtwell,  now  addressing  Mr.  G .  "  I  will 

pay  all  that  is  required.  You  know  him,  I  see." 

"  Yes,  I  know  him  well.  A  sad  case  indeed.  You 
may  be  sure  that  what  can  be  done  will  be  done." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Ridley  gave  a  cry  and  a 
spring  toward  the  door.  Glancing  at  him,  Mrs.  Birt 
well  saw  that  his  countenance  was  distorted  by  ter 
ror.  Instantly  two  men  came  in  from  the  adjoining 
room  and  quickly  restrained  him.  After  two  or 
three  fruitless  efforts  to  break  away,  he  submitted  to 
their  control,  and  was  immediately  removed  to  an 
other  part  of  the  building. 

With  white  lips  and  trembling  limbs  Mrs.  Birtwell 
stood  a  frightened  spectator  of  the  scene.  It  was 
over  in  a  moment,  but  it  left  her  sick  at  heart. 

"  What  will  they  do  with  him  ?"  she  asked,  her 
»roice  husky  and  choking. 

"  All  that  his  unhappy  case  requires,"  replied  Mr. 
G- .  "  The  man  you  saw  go  first  to  his  side  can 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         285 

pity  him,  for  he  has  himself  more  than  once  passed 
through  that  awful  conflict  with  the  power  of  hell 
upon  which  our  poor  friend  has  now  entered.  A 
year  ago  he  came  to  this  Home  in  a  worse  condition 
than  Mr.  Ridley,  begging  us  for  God's  sake  to  •  take 
him  in.  A  few  weeks  saw  him,  to  use  sacred  words, 
'  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind/  and  since  then  he 
has  never  gone  back  a  single  step.  Glad  and  grate 
ful  for  his  own  rescue,  he  now  devotes  his  life  to  the 
work  of  saving  others.  In  his  hands  Mr.  Ridley 
will  receive  the  gentlest  treatment  consistent  with 
needed  restraint.  He  is  better  here  than  he  could 
possibly  be  anywhere  else ;  and  when,  as  I  trust  in 
God  the  case  may  be,  he  comes  out  of  this  dreadful 
ordeal,  he  will  find  himself  surrounded  by  friends  and 
in  the  current  of  influences  all  leading  him  to  make 
a  new  effort  to  reform  his  life.  Poor  man!  You 
did  not  jet  him  here  a  moment  too  soon." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MRS.  BIRTWELL  slept  but  little  that  night, 
and  in  the  brief  periods  of  slumber  that  came 
to  her  she  was  disturbed  by  unquiet  dreams.  The 
expression  of  Mr.  Ridley's  face  as  the  closing  door 
shut  it  from  her  sight  on  the  previous  evening 
haunted  her  like  the  face  of  an  accusing  spectre. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  she  dressed  herself  to 
go  out,  intending  to  visit  the  Home  for  reforming 
inebriates  and  learn  something  of  Mr.  Ridley.  Just 
as  she  came  down  stairs  a  servant  opened  the  street 
door,  and  she  saw  the  slender  figure  of  Ethel. 

"  My  poor  child !"  she  said,  with  great  kindness  of 
manner,  taking  her  by  the  hand  and  drawing  her  in 
"  You  are  frightened  about  your  father." 

"  Oh  yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Ethel,  with  quivering 
lips.  "  He  didn't  come  home  all  night,  and  I'm  so 
scared  about  him.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Maybe 
you'll  think  it  wrong  in  me  to  trouble  you  about  it, 
but  I  am  in  such  distress,  and  don't  know  where 
to  go." 

"  No,  not  wrong1,  my  child,  and  I'm  glad  you've 
come.  I  ought  to  have  sent  you  word  about  him." 

"  My  father !  Oh,  ma'am,  do  you  know  where 
he  is?" 

286 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         287 

"  Yes ;  he  came  here  last  night  sick,  and  I  took 
him  in  my  carriage  to  a  Home  for  just  such  as  he  is, 
where  he  will  be  kindly  taken  care  of  until  he  gets 
well." 

Ethel's  large  brown  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  kind  oi 
thankful  wonder  on  the  face  of  Mrs.  Birtwell  Shi 
could  not  speak.  She  did  not  even  try  to  put  thought 
or  feeling  into  words.  She  only  took  the  ha  id  of 
Mrs.  Birtwell,  and  after  touching  it  with  her  lips  laid 
her  wet  cheek  against  it  and  held  it  there  tightly. 

"  Can  I  go  and  see  him  ?"  she  asked,  lifting  her 
face  after  some  moments. 

"  It  will  not  be  best,  I  think,"  replied  Mrs.  Birt 
well — "  that  is,  not  now.  He  was  very  sick  when 
we  took  him  there,  and  may  not  be  well  enough  to 
be  seen  this  morning." 

"Very  sick!  Oh,  ma'am!"  The  face  of  Ethel 
grew  white  and  her  lips  trembled. 

4<  Not  dangerously,"  said  Mrs.  Birtwell,  "  but  yet 
quite  ill.  I  am  going  now  to  see  him ;  and  if  you 
will  come  here  in  a  couple  of  hours,  when  I  shall 
return  home — " 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  let  me  go  along  with  you,"  broke 
in  Ethel.  "  I  won't  ask  to  see  him  if  it  isn't  thought 
best,  but  I'll  know  how  he  is  without  waiting  so 
long." 

The  fear  that  Mr.  Ridley  might  die  in  his  delirium 
had  troubled  Mrs.  Birtwell  all  night,  and  it  still  op 
pressed  her.  She  would  have  much  preferred  to 
go  alone  and  learn  first  the  goad  or  ill  af  the  gase. 


288         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

but  Ethel  begged  so  hard  to  be  permitted  to  accom 
pany  her  that  she  could  not  persist  in  objection. 

On  reaching  the  Home,  Mrs.  Birtwell  found  in  the 
office  the  man  in  whose  care  Mr.  Ridley  had  been 

placed.     Remembering  what  Mr.  G had  said  of 

this  man,  a  fresh  hope  for  Ethel's  father  sprang  up 
in  her  soul  as  she  looked  into  his  clear  eyes  and  saw 
his  firm  mouth  and  air  of  conscious  poise  and  strength 
She  did  not  see  in  his  manly  face  a  single  scar  from 
the  old  battle  out  of  which  he  had  come  at  last  vic 
torious.  Recognizing  her,  he  called  her  by  name, 
and  not  waiting  for  her  to  ask  the  question  that 
looked  out  of  her  face,  said : 

"  It  is  all  right  with  him." 

A  cry  of  joy  that  she  could  not  repress  broke 
from  Ethel.  It  was  followed  by  sobbing  and  tears. 

"  Can  we  see  him  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell. 

"  The  doctor  will  not  think  it  best,"  replied  the 
man.  "  He  has  had  a  pretty  hard  night,  but  the 
worst  is  over.  We  must  keep  him  quiet  to-day." 

"  In  the  morning  can  I  see  him  ?"  asked  Ethel 
lilting  her  eyes,  half  blinded  by  tears,  to  the  man's 
face. 

"  Yes ;  I  think  I  can  say  yes,"  was  the  reply. 

"  How  soon  ?" 

"  Come  at  ten  o'clock." 

"  You'll  let  me  call  and  ask  about  him  this  even 
ing,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  and  you  will  get  a  good  report,  I  am 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        2$(j 

The  care  and  help  and  wise  consideration  received 
in  the  Home  by  Mr.  Ridley,  while  passing  through 
the  awful  stages  of  his  mania,  had  probably  saved 
his  life.  The  fits  of  frenzy  were  violent,  so  over 
whelming  him  with  phantom  terrors  that  in  his  wild 
and  desperate  struggles  to  escape  the  fangs  of  ser 
pents  and  dragons  and  the  horrid  crew  of  imaginary 
demons  that  crowded  his  room  and  pressed  madly 
upon  him  he  would,  but  for  the  restraint  to  which  he 
was  subjected,  have  thrown  himself  headlong  from 
a  window  or  bruised  and  broken  himself  against  the 
wall. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after  Mr. 
Ridley  entered  the  Home.  He  had  so  far  recov 
ered  as  to  be  able  to  sit  up  in  his  room,  a  clean  and 
well-ventilated  apartment,  neatly  furnished  and  with 
an  air  of  home  comfort  about  it.  Two  or  three  pic 
tures  hung  on  the  walls,  one  of  them  representing  a 
father  sitting  with  a  child  upon  each  knee  and  the 
happy  mother  standing  beside  them.  He  had  looked 
at  this  picture  until  his  eyes  grew  dim.  Near  it  was 
an  illuminated  text :  "  WITHOUT  ME  YE  CAN  DO  NO 
THING." 

There  came,  as  he  sat  gazing  at  the  sweet  home- 
scene,  the  beauty  and  tenderness  of  which  had  gone 
down  into  his  heart,  troubling  its  waters  deeply,  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Then  the  matron,  accompanied 
by  one  of  the  lady  managers  of  the  institution,  came 
,in  and  made  kind  inquiries  as  to  his  condition.  He 
soon  saw  that  this  lady  was  a  refined  and  cultivated 

25  ' 


290         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

Christian  woman,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  felt 
himself  coming  under  a  new  influence  and  all  the 
old  desires  and  purposes  long  ago  cast  away  warm 
ing  again  into  life  and  gathering  up  their  feeble 
strength. 

Gradually  the  lady  led  him  on  to  talk  to  her  of 
himself  as  he  would  have  talked  to  his  mother  or 
his  sister.  She  asked  him  of  his  family,  and  got  the 
story  of  his  bereavement,  his  despair  and  his  help 
lessness.  Then  she  sought  to  inspire  him  with  new 
resolutions,  and  to  lead  him  to  make  a  new  effort. 

"  I  will  be  a  man  again,"  he  exclaimed,  at  last,  ris 
ing  to  this  declaration  under  the  uplifting  and  stimu 
lating  influences  that  were  around  him. 

Then  the  lady  answered  him  in  a  low,  earnest, 
tender  voice  that  trembled  with  the  burden  of  its 
great  concern : 

"  Not  in  your  own  strength.     That  is  impossible." 

His  lips  dropped  apart.  He  looked  at  hei 
strangely. 

"  Not  in  your  own  strength,  but  in  God's,"  she 
said  reverently.  "  You  have  tried  your  own  strength 
many  times,  but  it  has  failed  as  often.  But  his 
strength  never  fails." 

She  lifted  her  finger  and  pointed  to  the  text  on 
the  wall,  "  Without  me  ye  can  do  nothing,"  then 
added  :  "  But  in  him  we  can  do  all  things.  Trusting 
in  yourself,  my  friend,  you  will  go  forth  from  here 
to  an  unequal  combat,  but  trusting  in  him  your  vic-v 
tory  is  assured.  You  shall  go  among  lions  and  they 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        291 

have  no  power  to  harm  you,  and  stand  in  the 
very  furnace  flame  of  temptation  without  even  the 
smell  of  fire  being  left  upon  your  garments." 

"  Ah,  ma'am,  you  are  doubtless  right  in  what  you 
say,"  Mr.  Ridley  answered,  all  the  enthusiasm  dying 
out  of  his  countenance.  "  But  I  am  not  a  religious 
man.  I  have  never  trusted  in  God." 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  trust  in 
him  now,"  she  answered,  quickly.  "  All  other  hope 
for  you  is  vain,  but  in  God  there  is  safety.  Will  you 
not  go  to  him  now  ?" 

There  came  a  quick,  nervous  rap  upon  the  door ; 
then  it  was  flung  open,  and  Ethel,  with  a  cry  of  "  Oh, 
father,  my  father,  my  father !"  sprang  across  the  room 
and  threw  herself  into  Mr.  Ridley's  arms. 

With  an  answering  cry  of  "  Oh,  Ethel,  my  child, 
my  child  !"  Mr.  Ridley  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  clasped 
her  slender  form  to  his  heart  and  laid  his  face,  over 
which  tears  were  flowing,  down  among  the  thick 
masses  of  her  golden  hair. 

"  Let  us  pray,"  fell  the  sweet,  solemn  voice  of  the 
lady  manager  on  the  deep  stillness  that  followed. 
All  knelt,  Mr.  Ridley  with  his  arm  drawn  tightly 
around  his  daughter.  Then  in  tender,  earnest  sup 
plication  did  this  Christian  woman  offer  her  prayers 
for  help. 

"  Dear  Lord  and  Saviour,"  she  said,  in  hushed, 
pleading  tones,  "  whose  love  goes  yearning  after  the 
lost  and  straying  ones,  open  the  eyes  of  this  man, 
one  of  thy  sick  and  suffering  children,  that  he  may 


2Q  2         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

see  the  tender  beauty  of  thy  countenance.  Touch 
his  heart,  that  he  may  feel  the  sweetness  of  thy  love. 
Draw  him  to  come  unto  thee,  and  to  trust  and  con 
fide  in  thee  as  his  ever-present  and  unfailing  Friend. 
In  thee  is  safety,  in  thee  is  peace,  and  nowhere 
else." 

God  could  answer  this  prayer  through  its  influ 
ence  upon  the  mind  of  him  for  whom  it  was  offered. 
It  was  the  ladder  on  which  his  soul  climbed  upward. 
The  thought  of  God  and  of  his  love  and  mercy  with 
which  it  filled  all  his  consciousness  inspired  him  with 
hope.  He  saw  his  own  utter  helplessness,  and  felt 
the  peril  and  disaster  that  were  before  him  when  his 
frail  little  vessel  of  human  resolution  again  met  the 
fierce  storms  and  angry  billows  of  temptation ;  and 
so,  in  despairing  abandonment  of  all  human  strength, 
he  lifted  his  thoughts  to  God  and  cried  out  for  the 
help  and  strength  he  needed. 

And  then,  for  he  was  deeply  and  solemnly  in  earn 
est,  there  was  a  new  birth  in  his  soul — the  birth  of 
a  new  life  of  spiritual  forces  in  which  God  could  be 
so  present  with  him  as  to  give  him  power  to  conquer 
when  evil  assailed  him.  It  was  not  a  life  of  his  own, 
but  a  new  life  from  God — not  a  self-acting  life  by 
which  he  was  to  be  taken  over  the  sea  of  tempta 
tion  like  one  in  a  boat  rowed  by  a  strong  oarsman, 
but  a  power  he  must  use  for  himself,  and  one  that 
would  grow  by  use,  gaining  more  and  more  strength, 
until  it  subdued  and  subordinated  every  natural  de 
sire  to  the  rule  of  heavenly  principles,  and  yet  it 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         293 

was  a  life  that,  if  not  cherished  and  made  active, 
would  die. 

There  was  a  new  expression  in  Mr.  Ridley's  fact 
when  he  rose  from  his  knees.  It  was  calmer  anc 
stronger. 

"  God  being  your  helper,"  said  the  lady  manager, 
impressively,  "  victory  is  sure,  and  he  will  help  you 
and  overcome  for  you  if  you  will  let  him.  Do  not 
trust  to  any  mere  personal  motives  or  considerations. 
You  have  tried  to  stand  by  these  over  and  ovei 
again,  and  every  time  you  have  fallen  their  power  tc 
help  you  has  become  less.  Pride,  ambition,  even 
love,  have  failed.  But  the  strength  that  God  will 
give  you,  if  you  make  his  divine  laws  the  i-ile  of 
your  life,  cannot  fail.  Go  to  him  in  childlike  trust. 
Tell  him  as  you  would  tell  a  loving  father  of  your 
sin  and  sorrow  and  helplessness,  and  ask  of  him  the 
strength  you  need.  Read  every  morning  a  portion 
of  his  holy  word,  and  lay  the  divine  precepts  up  in 
your  heart.  He  is  himself  the  word  of  life,  and  is 
therefore  present  in  a  more  real  and  saving  way  to 
those  who  reverence  and  obey  this  word  than  it  is 
possible  for  him  to  be  to  those  who  do  not. 

"  Herein  will  lie  your  strength.  Hence  will  come 
your  deliverance.  Take  hold  upon  God  our  Saviour, 
my  friend,  and  all  the  powers  of  hell  shall  not  pre 
vail  against  you.  You  will  be  tempted,  but  in  the 
moment  you  hear  the  voice  of  the  tempter  look  to 
God  and  ask  him  for  strength,  and  it  will  surely 
come.  Don't  parley  for  a  single  moment.  Let  no 

25* 


294        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

feeling  of  security  lead  you  to  test  your  own  poor 
strength  in  any  combat  with  the  old  appetite,  for 
that  would  be  an  encounter  full  of  peril.  Trust  in 
God,  and  all  will  be  safe.  But  remember  that  there 
is  no  real  trust  in  God  without  a  life  in  harmony  with 
his  commandments.  All-abiding  spiritual  strength 
comes  through  obedience  only." 

Mr.  Ridley  listened  with  deep  attention,  and  when 
the  lady  ceased  speaking  said  : 

"  Of  myself  I  can  do  nothing.  Long  ago  I  saw 
that,  and  gave  up  the  struggle  in  despair.  If  help 
comes  now,  it  must  come  from  God.  No  power  but 
his  can  save  me." 

"  Will  you  not,  then,  go  to  him  ?" 

"  How  am  I  to  go  ?  What  am  I  to  do  ?  What 
will  God  require  of  me  ?" 

He  spoke  hurriedly  and  with  the  manner  of  one 
who  felt  himself  in  imminent  danger  and  looked 
anxiously  for  a  way  of  escape. 

"To  do  justly,  to  love  mercy  and  to  walk  humbly 
before  him ;  he  requires  nothing  more,"  was  the 
calmly  spoken  reply. 

A  light  broke  into  Mr.  Ridley's  face. 

"You  cannot  be  just  and  merciful  if  you  touch 
the  accursed  thing,  for  that  would  destroy  your 
power  to  be  so.  To  touch  it,  then,  will  be  to  sin 
against  God  and  hurt  your  neighbor.  Just  here, 
then,  must  your  religious  life  begin.  For  you  to 
taste  any  kind  of  intoxicating  drink  would  be  a  sin. 
God  cannot  help  you  unless  you  shun  this  evil  as  a 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        295 

sin  against  him,  and  he  will  give  you  the  pov\ei  to 
shun  it  if,  whenever  you  feel  the  desire  to  drink,  you 
resist  that  desire  and  pray  for  strength  by  which  to 
gain  a  victory. 

"  Every  time  you  do  this  you  will  receive  new 
spiritual  strength,  and  be  so  much  nearer  the  ark  of 
safety.  So  resisting  day  by  day,  always  in  a  hum 
ble  acknowledgment  that  every  good  gift  comes 
from  a  loving  Father  in  heaven,  the  time  is  not  far 
distant  when  your  feet  will  be  on  the  neck  of  the 
enemy  that  has  ruled  over  you  so  long.  Govl,  even 
our  God,  will  surely  bring  you  off  conqueror." 

Mr.  Ridley,  on  whose  calmer  face  the  light  of  a 
new  confidence  now  rested,  drew  his  arm  closely 
about  Ethel,  who  was  leaning  against  him,  and  said : 

"  Take  heart,  darling.  If  God  is  for  us,  who  shall 
be  against  us  ?  Henceforth  I  will  trust  in  him." 

Ethel  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  weeping 
silently.  The  matron  and  lady  manager  went  out 
and  left  them  alone. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  did  not  visit  the  Home  on  this 
morning  to  see  how  it  fared  with  Mr.  Ridley,  as  she 
had  intended  doing.  The  shadow  of  a  great  evil 
had  fallen  upon  her  house.  For  some  time  she  had 
seen  its  approaches  and  felt  the  gathering  gloom. 

If  the  reader  will  go  back  over  the  incidents  and 
characters  of  this  story,  he  will  recall  a  scene  between 
Mrs.  Whitford  and  her  son  Ellis,  the  accepted  lover 
of  Blanche  Birtwell,  and  will  remember  with  what 
tarnestness  the  mother  sought  to  awaken  in  the 


296         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

mind  of  the  young  man  a  sense  of  danger,  going  so 
far  as  to  uncover  a  family  secret  and  warn  him  of 
a  taint  in  his  blood.  It  will  also  be  remembered 
how  the  proud,  self-confident  young  man  rejected 
her  warnings  and  entreaties,  and  how  wine  betrayed 
him. 

The  humiliation  that  followed  was  deep,  but  not 
effective  to  save  him.  Wine  to  his  inherited  appe 
tite  was  like  blood  to  the  wolf-nature.  To  touch  it 
was  to  quicken  into  life  an  irrepressible  desire  for 
more.  But  his  pride  fought  against  any  acknow 
ledgment  of  his  weakness,  and  particularly  against 
so  public  an  acknowledgment  as  abstinence  when 
all  around  him  were  taking  wine.  Every  time  he 
went  to  a  dinner  or  evening-party,  or  to  any  enter 
tainment  where  wine  was  to  be  served,  he  would  go 
self-admonished  to  be  on  guard  against  excess,  but 
rarely  was  the  admonition  heeded.  A  single  glass 
so  weakened  his  power  of  restraint  that  he  could 
not  hold  back  his  hand ;  and  if  it  so  happened  that 
from  any  cause  this  limit  was  forced  upon  him,  as  in 
making  a  morning  or  an  evening  call,  the  stimulated 
appetite  would  surely  draw  his  feet  to  the  bar  of 
some  fashionable  saloon  or  hotel  in  order  that  it 
might  secure  a  deeper  satisfaction. 

It  was  not  possible,  so  impelled  by  appetite  and  so 

indulging  its  demands,  for  Ellis  Whitford  to  keep 

from  drifting  out  into  the  fatal  current  on   whose 

troubled  waters  thousands  are  yearly  borne  to  de- 

truction. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        297 

After  her  humiliation  at  Mrs.  Birtwell's,  a  smile 
was  never  seen  upon  the  mother's  face.  All  that 
she  deemed  it  wise  to  say  to  her  son  when  he  awoke 
in  shame  next  morning  she  said  in  tears  that  she  had 
no  power  to  hold  back.  He  promised  with  solemn 
asseverations  that  he  would  never  again  so  debase 
himself,  and  he  meant  to  keep  his  promise.  Hope 
stirred  feebly  in  his  mother's  heart,  but  died  when, 
in  answer  to  her  injunction,  "  Touch  not,  taste  not, 
handle  not,  my  son.  Herein  lies  your  only  chance 
of  safety,"  he  replied  coldly  and  with  irritation : 

44 1  will  be  a  man,  and  not  a  slave.  I  will  walk 
in  freedom  among  my  associates,  not  holding  up 
manacled  wrists." 

Alas  !  he  did  not  walk  in  freedom.  Appetite  had 
already  forged  invisible  chains  that  held  him  in  a 
fatal  bondage.  It  was  not  yet  too  late.  With  a 
single  strong  effort  he  could  have  rent  these  bonds 
asunder,  freeing  himself  for  ever.  But  pride  and  a 
false  shame  held  him  back  from  making  this  effort, 
and  all  the  while  appetite  kept  silently  strengthen 
ing  every  link  and  steadily  forging  new  chains. 
Day  by  day  he  grew  feebler  as  to  will-power  and 
less  clear  in  judgment.  His  fine  ambition,  that  once 
promised  to  lift  him  into  the  highest  ranks  of  his 
profession,  began  to  lose  its  stimulating  influence. 

None  but  his  mother  knew  how  swiftly  this  sad 
demoralization  was  progressing,  though  others  were 
aware  of  the  fact  that  he  indulged  too  freely  in  wine. 

With  a  charity  that  in  too  many  instances  was 


298          Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

self-excusing,  not  a  few  of  his  friends  and  acquaint 
ances  made  light  of  his  excesses,  saying : 

"  Oh,  he'll  get  over  it ;"  or,  "  Young  blood  is  hot 
and  boils  up  sometimes;"  or,  "  He'll  steady  himself, 
never  fear." 

The  engagement  between  Ellis  and  Blanche  still 
existed,  though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  were  begin 
ning  to  feel  very  much  concerned  about  the  future 
of  their  daughter,  and  were  seriously  considering  the 
propriety  of  taking  steps  to  have  the  engagement 
broken  off.  The  young  man  often  came  to  their 
house  so  much  under  the  influence  of  drink  that 
there  was  no  mistaking  his  condition ;  but  if  any  re 
mark  was  made  about  it,  Blanche  not  only  exhibited 
annoyance,  but  excused  and  defended  him,  not  unfre- 
quently  denying  the  fact  that  was  apparent  to  all. 

One  day — it  was  several  months  from  the  date  of 
that  fatal  party  out  of  which  so  many  disasters  came, 
as  if  another  Pandora's  box  had  been  opened — the 
card  of  Mrs.  Whitford  was  placed  in  the  hands  of 
Mrs.  Birtwell. 

"  Say  that  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment." 

But  the  servant  who  had  brought  up  the  card 
answered : 

"  The  lady  wished  me  to  say  that  she  would  like 
to  see  you  alone  in  your  own  room,  and  would  come 
up  if  it  was  agreeable." 

"  Oh.  certainly.     Tell  her  to  come  right  up." 

Wondering  a  little  at  this  request,  Mrs.  Birtwell 
waited  for  Mrs.  Whitford' 5  appearance,  rising  and 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         299 

advancing  toward  the  door  as  she  heard  her  steps 
approaching.  Mrs.  Whitford's  veil  was  down  as  she 
entered,  and  she  did  not  draw  it  aside  until  she  had 
shut  the  door  behind  her.  Then  she  pushed  it  away. 
An  exclamation  of  painful  surprise  fell  from  the 
lips  of  Mrs.  Birtwell  the  moment  she  saw  the  face 
of  her  visitor.  It  was  pale  and  wretched  beyond 
description,  but  wore  the  look  of  one  who  had  re 
solved  to  perform  some  painful  duty,  though  it  cost 
her  the  intensest  suffering. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  HAVE  come/'  said  Mrs.  Whitford,  after  she 
was  seated  and  had  composed  herself,  "  to  per 
form  the  saddest  duty  of  my  whole  life." 

She  paused,  her  white  lips  quivering,  then  rallied 
her  strength  and  went  on  : 

"  Even  to  dishonor  my  son." 

She  caught  her  breath  with  a  great  sob,  and  le- 
mained  silent  for  nearly  half  a  minute,  sitting  so  still 
that  she  seemed  like  one  dead.  In  that  brief  time 
she  had  chained  down  her  overwrought  feelings  and 
could  speak  without  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  I  have  come  to  say,"  she  now  went  on,  "  that 
this  marriage  must  not  take  place.  Its  consumma 
tion  would  be  a  great  wrong,  and  entail  upon  your 
daughter  a  life  of  misery.  My  son  is  falling  into 
habits  that  will,  I  sadly  fear,  drag  him  down  to  hope 
less  ruin.  I  have  watched  the  formation  and  growth 
of  this  habit  with  a  solicitude  that  has  for  a  long 
time  robbed  my  life  of  its  sweetness.  All  the  while 
I  see  him  drifting  away  from  me,  and  I  am  powerless 
to  hold  him  back.  Every  day  he  gets  farther  off,  and 
every  day  my  heart  grows  heavier  with  sorrow.  Can 
nothing  be  done  ?  Alas  !  nothing,  I  fear  ;  and  I  must 
tell  you  why,  Mrs.  Birtwell.  It  is  best  that  you 

300 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        301 

should  see  the  case  as  hopeless,  and  save  your  daugh 
ter  if  you  can." 

She  paused  again  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
continued : 

"  It  is  not  with  my  son  as  with  most  young  men. 
He  has  something  more  to  guard  against  than  the 
ordinary  temptations  of  society.  There  is,  as  you 
may  possibly  know,  a  taint  in  his  blood — the  taint  of 
hereditary  intemperance.  I  warned  him  of  this  and 
implored  him  to  abjure  wine  and  all  other  drinks  that 
intoxicate,  but  he  was  proud  and  sensitive  as  well  as 
confident  in  his  own  strength.  He  began  to  imagine 
that  everybody  knew  the  family  secret  I  had  revealed 
to  him,  and  that  if  he  refused  wine  in  public  it  would 
be  attributed  to  his  fear  of  arousing  a  sleeping  appe 
tite  which  when  fully  awake  and  active  might  prove 
too  strong  for  him,  and  so  he  often  drank  in  a  kind 
of  bravado  spirit.  He  would  be  a  man  and  let  every 
one  see  that  he  could  hold  the  mastery  over  himself. 
It  was  a  dangerous  experiment  for  him,  as  I  knew  it 
would  be,  and  has  failed." 

Mrs.  Whitford  broke  down  and  sobbed  in  an  un 
controllable  passion  of  grief.  Then,  rising,  she  said  : 

"  I  have  done  a  simple  duty,  Mrs.  Birtwell.  How 
hard  the  task  has  been  you  can  never  know,  for 
through  a  trial  like  mine  you  will  never  have  to  pass. 
It  now  remains  for  you  to  do  the  best  to  save  your 
child  from  the  great  peril  that  lies  before  her.  I  wish 
that  I  could  say,  '  Tell  Blanche  of  our  interview  and 
of  rny  solemn  warning.'  But  I  cannot,  I  dare  not 


302         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

do  so,  for  it  would  be  to  cast  up  a  wall  between  me 
and  my  son  and  to  throw  him  beyond  the  circle  of 
my  influence.  It  would  turn  his  heart  against  his 
mother,  and  that  is  a  calamity  from  the  very  thought 
of  which  I  shrink  with  a  sickening  fear." 

The  two  women,  sad  partners  in  a  grief  that  time 
might  intensify  instead  of  making  less,  stood  each 
leaning  her  face  down  upon  the  other's  shoulder  and 
wept  silently,  then  raised  their  eyes  and  looked  wist 
fully  at  each  other. 

"  The  path  of  duty  is  very  rough  sometimes ;  but 
if  we  must  walk  it  to  save  another,  we  cannot  stay 
our  feet  and  be  guiltless  before  God,"  said  Mrs. 
Whitford.  "  It  has  taken  many  days  since  I  saw 
this  path  of  suffering  and  humiliation  open  its  dreary 
course  for  me  to  gather  up  the  strength  required  to 
walk  in  it  with  steady  feet.  Every  day  for  more 
than  a  week  I  have  started  out  resolved  to  see  you. 
but  every  day  my  heart  has  failed.  Twice  I  stood 
at  your  door  with  my  hand  on  the  bell,  then  turned 
and  went  away.  But  the  task  is  over,  the  duty  done, 
and  I  pray  that  it  may  not  be  in  vain." 

What  was  now  to  be  done?  When  Mr.  Birtwell 
was  informed  of  this  interview,  he  became  greatly 
excited,  declaring  that  he  should  forbid  any  further 
intercourse  between  the  young  people.  The  engage 
ment,  he  insisted,  should  be  broken  off  at  once.  But 
Mrs.  Birtwell  was  wiser  than  her  husband,  and  knew 
better  than  he  did  the  heart  of  their  daughter. 

Blanche  had  taken  more  from  her  mother  than  from 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         303 

her  father,  and  the  current  of  her  life  ran  far  deeper 
than  that  of  most  of  the  frivolous  girls  around  her. 
Love  with  her  could  not  be  a  mere  sentiment,  but  a 
deep  and  all-pervading  passion.  Such  a  passion  she 
felt  for  Ellis  Whitford,  and  she  was  ready  to  link  her 
destinies  with  his,  whether  the  promise  were  for  good 
or  for  evil.  To  forbid  Ellis  the  house  and  lay  upon 
her  any  interdictions  in  regard  to  him  would,  the 
mother  knew,  precipitate  the  catastrophe  they  were 
anxious  to  avert. 

It  was  not  possible  for  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Birtwell 
to  conceal  from  their  daughter  the  state  of  feeling 
into  which  the  visit  of  Mrs.  Whitford  had  thrown 
them,  nor  long  to  remain  passive.  The  work  of 
separation  must  be  commenced  without  delay. 
Blanche  saw  the  change  in  her  parents,  and  felt  an 
instinct  of  danger ;  and  when  the  first  intimations  of 
a  decided  purpose  to  make  a  breach  between  her  and 
Ellis  came,  she  set  her  face  like  flint  against  them,, 
not  in  any  passionate  outbreak,  but  with  a  calrr\ 
assertion  of  her  undying  love  and  her  readiness  tq 
accept  the  destiny  that  lay  before  her..  To,  the  De 
claration  of  her  mother  that  Ellis  was  doomed  by 
inheritance  to  the  life  of  a  drunkard,  she  replied : 

"  Then  he  will  p,n,ly  th,e.  mp.re  n.eecl  my  love  and 
eare." 

Persuasion,   appeal,   remqnstraiice,    were    useless. 
Then  Mr.  Birtwell  interposed  with  authority. 
was  denied  the  house  and  Blanche  forbidden  to 
him. 


JG4         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

This  was  the  condition  of  affairs  at  the  time  Mra 
Birtwell  became  so  deeply  interested  in  Mr.  Ridley 
and  his  family.  Blanche  had  risen,  in  a  measure, 
above  the  deep  depression  of  spirits  consequent  on 
the  attitude  of  her  parents  toward  her  betrothed 
husband,  and  while  showing  no  change  in  her  feel 
ings  toward  him  seemed  content  to  wait  for  what 
might  come.  Still,  there  was  something  in  her  man 
ner  that  Mrs.  Birtwell  did  not  understand,  and  that 
occasioned  at  times  a  feeling  of  doubt  and  uneasi 
ness. 

"  Where  is  Blanche  ?w  asked  Mr.  Birtwell.  It  was 
the  evening  following  that  on  which  Mr.  Ridley  had 
been  taken  to  the  Home  for  .inebriates.  He  was 
sitting  at  the  tea-table  with  his  wife. 

"  She  is  in  her  room,"  replied  Mrs.  Birtwell. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?"  inquired  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Birtwell  noticed  something  in  his  voice  that 
made  her  say  quickly : 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  For  no  particular  reason,  only  she's  not  down  to 
tea." 

Mr.  Birtwell's  face  had  grown  very  serious. 

"  She'll  be  along  in  a  few  moments,"  returned 
Mrs.  Birtwell. 

But  several  minutes  elapsed,  and  still  she  did  not 
make  her  appearance. 

"  Go  up  and  knock  at  Miss  Blanche's  door,"  said 
Mrs.  Birtwell  to  the  waiter.  "  She  may  have  fallen 
asleep." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         30$ 

The  man  left  the  room. 

"  I  feel  a  little  nervous,"  said  Mr.  Birtwell,  setting 
Jown  his  cup,  the  moment  they  were  alone.  "  Has 
Blanche  been  out  since  dinner?" 

"  No." 

"All  right,  then.  It  was  only  a  fancy,  as  I  knew 
it  to  be  at  the  time.  But  it  gave  me  a  start." 

"  What  gave  you  a  start  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Birtwell. 

"A  face  in  a  carriage.  I  saw  it  for  an  instant 
only." 

"Whose  face?" 

"  I  thought  for  the  moment  it  was  that  of  Blanche." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  grew  very  pale,  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  turned  her  head,  listening  for  the  waiter. 
N-either  of  them  spoke  until  he  returned. 

"  Miss  Blanche  is  not  there." 

Both  started  from  the  table  and  left  the  room,  the 
waiter  looking  after  them  in  surprise.  They  were 
not  long  in  suspense.  A  letter  from  Blanche,  ad 
dressed  to  her  mother,  which  was  found  lying  on  her 
bureau,  told  the  sad  story  of  her  perilous  life-ven 
ture,  and  overwhelmed  her  parents  with  sorrow  and 
dismay.  It  read : 

"  MY  DEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER  :  When  you 
receive  this,  I  shall  be  married  to  Ellis  Whitford. 
There  is  nothing  that  I  can  say  to  break  for  you 
the  pain  of  this  intelligence.  If  there  was,  oh  how 
gladly  would  I  say  it !  My  destiny  is  on  me,  and  I 
must  walk  in  the  way  it  leads.  It  is  not  that  I  love 

26*  U 


306         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

you  less  that  I  go  away  from  you,  but  because  1 
feel  the  voice  of  duty  which  is  calling  to  me  to  be 
the  voice  of  God.  Another  life  and  another  destiny 
are  bound  up  in  mine,  and  there  is  no  help  for  me. 
God  bless  you  and  comfort  you,  and  keep  your  hearts 
from  turning  against  your  loving  BLANCHE." 

In  all  their  fond  looks  forward  to  the  day  when 
their  beautiful  child  should  stand  in  bridal  robes — 
and  what  parents  with  lovely  daughters  springing 
up  toward  womanhood  do  not  thus  look  forward 
and  see  such  visions  ? — no  darkly  brooding  fancy 
had  conceived  of  anything  like  this.  The  voice 
that  fell  upon  their  ears  was  not  the  song  of  a  happy 
bride  going  joyously  to  the  altar,  but  the  cry  of  their 
pet  lamb  bound  for  the  sacrifice. 

"  Oh,  madness,  madness  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Birtwell 
in  anger  and  dismay. 

"  My  poor  unhappy  child  !  God  pity  her !"  sobbed 
the  white-lipped  mother,  tearless  under  the  sudden 
shock  of  this  great  disaster  that  seemed  as  if  it  would 
beat  out  her  life. 

There  was  no  help,  no  remedy.  The  fatal  step 
had  been  taken,  and  henceforth  the  destiny  of  their 
child  was  bound  up  with  that  of  one  whose  inherited 
desire  for  drink  had  already  debased  his  manhood. 
For  loving  parents  we  can  scarcely  imagine  a  drearier 
outlook  upon  life  than  this. 

The  anger  of  Mr.  Birtwell  soon  wasted  its  strength 
amid  the  shallows  of  his  weaker  character,  but  the 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         307 

pain  and  hopeless  sorrow  grew  stronger  and  went 
deeper  down  into  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Birtwell  day  by 
day.  Their  action  in  the  case  was  such  as  became 
wise  and  loving  parents.  What  was  done  was  done, 
and  angry  scenes,  coldness  and  repulsion  could  now 
only  prove  hurtful.  As  soon  as  Blanche  returned 
from  a  short  bridal-tour  the  doors  of  her  father's  house 
were  thrown  open  lor  her  and  her  husband  to  come 
in.  But  the  sensitive,  high-spirited  young  man  said, 
"  No."  He  could  not  deceive  himself  in  regard  to 
the  estimation  in  which  he  was  held  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  and  was  not  willing  to  encounter  the  humil 
iation  of  living  under  their  roof  and  coming  in  daily 
but  restrained  contact  with  them.  So  he  took  his 
bride  to  his  mother's  house,  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  had  no 
alternative  but  to  submit,  hard  as  the  trial  was,  to 
this  separation  from  her  child. 

This  was  the  shadow  of  the  great  evil  in  which 
Mrs.  Birtwell  was  sitting  on  the  day  Mr.  Ridley 
found  himself  amid  the  new  influences  and  new 
friends  that  were  to  give  him  another  start  in  life 
and  another  chance  to  redeem  himself.  She  had 
passed  a  night  of  tears  and  agony,  and  though  suf 
fering  deeply  had  gained  a  calm  exterior.  Ethel, 
after  leaving  the  Home,  came  with  a  heart  full  of 
new  hope  and  joy  to  see  Mrs.  Birtwell  and  tell  her 
about  her  father. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  unhappy  mother,  sitting 
in  the  shadows  of  her  own  great  sorrow,  was  to  send 
the  girl  away  with  a  simple  denial. 


305         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"Say  that  I  cannot  see  her  this  morning,"  she 
said,  coldly.  But  before  the  servant  could  leave  the 
room  she  repented  of  this  denial. 

"Stay!"  she  called.  Then,  while  the  servant 
paused,  she  let  her  thoughts  go  from  herself  to 
Ethel  and  her  father. 

"  Tell  the  young  lady  to  wait  for  a  little  while," 
she  said.  "  I  will  ring  for  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  servant  went  out,  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  turned  to 
her  secretary  and  wrote  a  few  lines,  saying  that  she 
was  not  feeling  well  and  could  not  see  Miss  Ridley 
then,  but  would  be  glad  to  have  her  call  in  two  or 
three  days.  Placing  this  with  a  bank-bill  in  an 
envelope,  she  rang  for  the  servant,  who  took  the  let 
ter  down  stairs  and  gave  it  to  Ethel. 

But  Mrs.  Birtwell  did  not  feel  as  though  she  had 
done  her  whole  duty  in  the  case.  A  pressure  was 
left  upon  her  feelings.  What  of  the  father  ?  How 
was  it  faring  with  him  ?  She  hesitated  about  recall 
ing  the  servant  until  it  was  too  late.  Ethel  took  the 
letter,  and  without  opening  it  went  away. 

A  new  disquiet  came  from  this  cause,  and  Mrs. 
Birtwell  could  not  shake  it  off.  Happily  for  her 
relief,  Mr.  Elliott,  whose  interest  in  the  fallen  man 
was  deep  enough  to  take  him  to  the  Home  that 
morning,  called  upon  her  with  the  most  gratifying 
intelligence.  He  had  seen  Mr.  Ridley  and  held  a 
long  interview  with  him,  the  result  of  which  was  a 
strong  belief  that  the  new  influences  under  which  he 
had  been  brought  would  be  effectual  in  saving  him. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         309 

"  I  have  faith  in  these  influences,"  said  the  clergy 
man,  "  because  I  understand  their  ground  and  force. 
Peter  would  have  gone  down  hopelessly  in  the  Sea  of 
Galilee  if  he  had  depended  on  himself  alone.  Only 
the  divine  Saviour,  on  whom  he  called  and  in  whom 
he  trusted,  could  save  him ;  and  so  it  is  in  the  case 
of  men  like  Mr.  Ridley  who  try  to  walk  over  the  sea 
of  temptation.  Peter's  despairing  cry  of  4  Save, 
Lord,  or  I  perish,'  must  be  theirs  also  if  they  would 
keep  from  sinking  beneath  the  angry  waters,  and  no 
one  ever  calls  sincerely  upon  God  for  help  without 
receiving  it.  That  Mr.  Ridley  is  sincere  I  have  no 
doubt,  and  herein  lies  my  great  confidence." 

At  the  end  of  a  week  Blanche  returned  from  her 
wedding-tour,  and  was  received  by  her  parents  with 
love  and  tenderness  instead  of  repioaches.  These 
last,  besides  being  utterly  useless,  would  have  pushed 
the  young  husband  away  from  them  and  out  of  the 
reach  of  any  saving  influences  it  might  be  in  their 
power  to  exercise. 

The  hardest  trial  now  for  Mrs.  Birtwell  was  the 
separation  from  Blanche,  whose  daily  visits  were  a 
poor  substitute  for  the  old  constant  and  close  com 
panionship.  If  there  had  not  been  a  cloud  in  the  sky 
of  her  child's  future,  with  its  shadow  already  dim 
ming  the  brightness  of  her  young  life,  the  mother's 
heart  would  have  still  felt  an  aching  and  a  void, 
would  have  been  a  mourner  for  love's  lost  delights 
and  possessions  that  could  nevermore  return.  But 
to  all  this  was  added  a  fear  and  dread  that  made 


UO        Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

her  soul  grow  faint  when  thought  cast  itself  forward 
into  the  coming  time. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Brantley  Elliott  was  a  wiser  and  truer 
man  than  some  who  read  him  superficially  imagined. 
His  churchmanship  was  sometimes  narrower  than 
his  humanity,  while  the  social  element  in  his  charac 
ter,  which  was  very  strong,  often  led  him  to  forget 
in  mixed  companies  that  much  of  what  he  might 
say  or  do  would  be  judged  of  by  the  clerical  and  not 
the  personal  standard,  and  his  acts  and  words  set 
down  at  times  as  favoring  worldliness  and  self-indul 
gence.  Harm  not  unfrequently  came  of  this.  But 
he  was  a  sincere  Christian  man,  deeply  impressed 
with  the  sacredness  of  his  calling  and  earnest  in  his 
desire  to  lead  heavenward  the  people  to  whom  he 
ministered. 

The  case  of  Mr.  Ridley  had  not  only  startled  and 
distressed  him,  but  filled  him  with  a  painful  concern 
lest  other  weak  and  tempted  ones  might  have  fallen 
through  his  unguarded  utterance  or  been  betrayed 
through  his  freedom.  The  declaration  of  Paul  came 
to  him  with  a  new  force  :  "  Wherefore,  if  meat  make 
my  brother  to  offend,  I  will  eat  no  meat  while  the 
world  standeth,  lest  I  make  my  brother  to  offend ;" 
and  he  resolved  not  only  to  abstain  from  wine  here 
after  in  mixed  companies,  but  to  use  his  influence  to 
discourage  a  social  custom  fraught,  as  he  was  now 
beginning  to  see,  with  the  most  disastrous  conse 
quences. 

The   deep   concern    felt   for   Mr.  Ridley  by  Mr. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        311 

Elliott  and  Mrs.  Birtwell  drew  them  oftener  together 
no\v  and  took  them  frequently  to  the  Home  for  ine 
briates,  in  which  both  took  a  deep  interest.  For  over 
three  weeks  Mr.  Ridley  remained  at  the  institution,  its 
religious  influences  growing  deeper  and  deeper  every 
day.  He  met  there  several  men  who  had  fallen 
from  as  high  an  estate  as  himself — men  of  cultured 
intellect,  force  of  character  and  large  ability — and  a 
feeling  of  brotherhood  grew  up  between  them. 
They  helped  and  strengthened  each  other,  entering 
into  a  league  offensive  and  defensive  and  pledging 
themselves  to  an  undying  antagonism  toward  every 
form  of  intemperance. 

When  Mr.  Ridley  returned  to  his  home,  he  found 
it  replete  with  many  comforts  not  there  when  love 
and  despair  sent  him  forth  to  die,  for  aught  he  knew, 
amid  nameless  horrors.  An  office  had  been  rented 
for  him,  and  Mr.  Birtwell  had  a  case  of  consider 
able  importance  to  place  in  his  hands.  It  was  a 
memorable  occasion  in  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas 
when,  with  the  old  clear  light  in  his  eyes  and  bear 
ing  of  conscious  power,  he  stood  among  his  former 
associates,  and  in  the  firm,  ringing  voice  which  had 
echoed  there  so  many  times  before,  made  an  argu 
ment  for  his  client  that  held  both  court  and  jury 
almost  spellbound  for  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  seed  and  the  harvest  are  alike  in  quality 
Between  cause  and  effect  there  is  an  unchang 
ing  and  eternal  relation.     Men  never  find  grapes  on 
thorns  nor  figs  on  thistles. 

As  an  aggregate  man,  society  has  no  escape  from 
this  law.  It  must  reap  as  it  sows.  If  its  customs 
be  safe  and  good,  its  members,  so  far  as  they  are  influ 
enced  by  these  customs,  will  be  temperate,  orderly 
and  virtuous  ;  but  if  its  tone  be  depraved  and  its  cus 
toms  evil  or  dangerous,  moral  and  physical  ruin  must 
in  too  many  sad  cases  be  the  inevitable  result. 

It  is  needless  to  press  this  view,  for  it  is  self-evi 
dent  and  no  one  calls  it  in  question.  Its  truth  has 
daily  and  sorrowful  confirmation  in  the  wan  faces 
and  dreary  eyes  and  wrecks  of  a  once  noble  and 
promising  manhood  one  meets  at  every  turn. 

The  thorn  and  the  thistle  harvest  that  society 
reaps  every  year  is  fearfully  great,  and  the  seed  from 
which  too  large  a  portion  of  this  harvest  comes  is  its 
drinking  customs.  Men  of  observation  and  intelli 
gence  everywhere  give  this  testimony  with  one  con 
sent.  All  around  us,  day  and  night,  year  by  year,  in 
palace  and  hovel,  the  gathering  of  this  sad  and  bit 
ter  harvest  goes  on — the  harvest  of  broken  hearts 

312 


Wounded  tn  the  House  of  a  Friend.        313 

and  ruined  lives.  And  still  the  hand  of  the  sower 
is  not  stayed.  Refined  and  lovely  women  and  men 
of  low  and  brutal  instincts,  church  members  and 
scoffers  at  religion,  stately  gentlemen  and  vulgar 
clowns,  are  all  at  work  sowing  the  baleful  seed  that 
ripens,  alas !  too  quickly  its  fruit  of  woe.  The  home 
saloon  vies  with  the  common  licensed  saloon  in  its 
allurements  and  attractions,  and  men  who  would 
think  themselves  degraded  by  contact  with  those 
who  for  gain  dispense  liquor  from  a  bar  have  a  sense 
of  increased  respectability  as  they  preside  over  the 
good  wine  and  pure  spirits  they  offer  to  their  guests 
in  palace  homes  free  of  cost. 

We  are  not  indulging  in  forms  of  rhetoric.  To 
do  so  would  only  weaken  the  force  of  our  warning. 
What  we  have  written  is  no  mere  fancy  work.  The 
pictures  thrown  upon  our  canvas  with  all  the  power 
of  vivid  portraiture  that  we  possess  are  but  feeble 
representations  of  the  tragic  scenes  that  are  enacted 
in  society  year  by  year,  and  for  which  every  member 
of  society  who  does  not  put  his  hand  to  the  work 
of  reform  is  in  some  degree  responsible. 

We  are  not  developing  a  romance,  but  trying, 
as  just  said,  to  give  from  real  life  some  warning 
pictures.  Our  task  is  nearly  done.  A  few  more 
scenes,  and  then  our  work  will  be  laid  for  the  pres 
ent  aside. 

There  are  men  who  never  seem  to  comprehend 
the  lesson  of  events  or  to  feel  the  pressure  of  per 
sonal  responsibility.  They  drift  with  the  tide,  doing 

27 


3 14         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

as  their  neighbors  do,  and  resting  satisfied.  The 
heroism  of  self-sacrifice  or  self-denial  is  something 
to  which  they  cannot  rise.  Nothing  is  farther  from 
their  ambition  than  the  role  of  a  reformer.  Com 
fortable,  self-indulgent,  placid,  they  move  with  the 
current  and  manage  to  keep  away  from  its  eddies. 
Such  a  man  was  Mr.  Birtwell.  He  knew  of  some 
of  the  disasters  that  followed  so  closely  upon  his 
grand  entertainment,  but  refused  to  connect  there 
with  any  personal  responsibility.  It  was  unfoi  tunate, 
of  course,  that  these  things  should  have  happened 
with  him,  but  he  was  no  more  to  blame  for  them 
than  if  they  had  happened  with  his  neighbor  across 
the  way.  So  he  regarded  the  matter.  But  not  so 
Mrs.  Birtwell.  As  we  have  seen,  a  painful  sense  of 
responsibility  lay  heavily  upon  her  heart. 

The  winter  that  followed  was  a  gay  one,  and  many 
large  entertainments  were  given.  The  Birtwells 
always  had  a  party,  and  this  party  was  generally  the 
event  of  the  season,  for  Mr.  Birtwell  liked  eclat  and 
would  get  it  if  possible.  Time  passed,  and  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  who  had  sent  regrets  to  more  than  half  the 
entertainments  to  which  they  received  invitations, 
said  nothing. 

"  When  are  we  going  to  have  our  party  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Birtwell  of  his  wife  as  they  sat  alone  one  even- 
;ng.  He  saw  her  countenance  change.  After  a  few 
moments  she  replied  in  a  low  but  very  firm  and 
decided  voice : 

"  Whenever  we  can  have  it  without  wine." 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        315 

"  Then  we'll  never  have  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Birt 
well,  in  considerable  excitement. 

"  It  will  be  better  so,"  returned  his  wife,  "than  again 
to  lay  stumbling-blocks  at  the  feet  of  our  neighbors." 

There  came  a  sad  undertone  in  her  voice  that  her 
husband  did  not  fail  to  perceive. 

"  We  don't  agree  in  this  thing,"  said  Mr.  Birtwell, 
with  some  irritation  of  manner. 

"  Then  will  it  not  be  best  to  let  the  party  go  over 
until  we  can  agree?  No  harm  can  come  of  that, 
and  harm  might  come,  as  it  did  last  year,  from  turn 
ing  our  house  into  a  drinking-saloon." 

The  sting  of  these  closing  words  was  sharp.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  Mr.  Birtwell  had  heard  his 
wife  use  them,  and  they  never  failed  to  shock  his 
fine  sense  of  respectability. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Margaret,"  he  broke  out,  in 
a  passion  he  could  not  control,  "  don't  say  that  again ! 
It's  an  outrage.  You'll  give  mortal  offence  if  you 
use  such  language." 

"  It  is  best  to  call  things  by  their  right  names," 
replied  Mrs.  Birtwell,  in  no  way  disturbed  by  her 
husband's  weak  anger.  "As  names  signify  qual 
ities,  we  should  be  very  careful  how  we  deceive 
others  by  the  use  of  wrong  ones.  To  call  a  lion  a 
lamb  might  betray  a  blind  or  careless  person  into 
the  jaws  of  a  ferocious  monster,  or  to  speak  of  the 
fruit  of  the  deadly  nightshade  as  a  cherry  might 
deceive  a  child  into  eating  it." 

"You  are  incorrigible,"   said   Mr.  BirtwelJ,  his 


316        Wounded  in  the  house  of  a  Friend. 

anger  subsiding.  It  never  went  very  deep,  for  his 
nature  was  shallow. 

"  No,  not  incorrigible,  but  right,"  returned  Mrs. 
Birtwell. 

"  Then  we  are  not  to  have  a  party  this  winter  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  so.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  ready 
to  entertain  our  friends,  but  the  party  I  give  must  be 
one  in  which  no  wine  or  brandy  is  served." 

"  Preposterous !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Birtwell.  "  We'd 
make  ourselves  the  laughing-stock  of  the  city." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  returned  his  wife. 

Mr.  Birtwell  shook  his  head  and  shut  his  mouth 
tightly: 

"  There's  no  use  in  talking  about  it.  If  the  thing 
can't  be  done  right,  it  can't  be  done  at  all." 

"So  say  I.  Still,  I  would  do  it  right  and  show 
society  a  better  way  if  you  were  brave  enough  to 
stand  by  my  side.  But  as  you  are  not,  our  party 
must  go  by  default  this  winter." 

Mrs.  Birtwell  smiled  faintly  to  soften  the  rebuke 
of  her  words.  They  had  reached  this  point  in  their 
conversation  when  Mr.  Elliott,  their  clergyman, 
called.  His  interest  in  the  Home  for  inebriates 
had  increased  instead  of  abating,  and  he  now  held 
the  place  of  an  active  member  in  the  board  of 
directors.  Mrs.  Birtwell  had,  months  before,  given 
in  her  adhesion  to  the  cause  of  reform,  and  the 
board  of  lady  managers,  who  had  a  close  super 
vision  of  the  internal  arrangements  of  the  Home, 
had  few  more  efficient  workers. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         3 1 7 

In  the  beginning  Mr.  Birtwell  had  "  pooh-poohed  " 
at  his  wife's  infatuation,  as  he  called  it,  and  prophe 
sied  an  early  collapse  of  the  whole  affair.  "  The  best 
thing  to  do  with  a  drunkard,"  he  would  say,  with 
mocking  levity,  "  is  to  let  him  die.  The  sooner  he 
is  out  of  the  way,  the  better  for  himself  and  society." 
But  of  late  he  had  given  the  matter  a  more  respect 
ful  consideration.  Still,  he  would  have  his  light 
word  and  pleasant  banter  both  with  his  wife  and 
Mr.  Elliott,  who  often  dropped  in  to  discuss  with 
Mrs.  Birtwell  the  interests  of  the  Home. 

"  Just  in  the  nick  of  time,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Birt 
well,  smiling,  as  he  took  the  clergyman's  hand. 
"  My  wife  and  I  have  had  a  disagreement — we  quar 
rel  dreadfully,  you  know — and  you  must  decide  be 
tween  us." 

"Indeed!  What's  the  trouble  now?"  said  Mr. 
Elliott,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Well,  you  see,  we've  been  discussing  the  party 
question,  and  are  at  daggers'  points." 

The  light  which  had  spread  over  Mr.  Elliott's 
countenance  faded  off  quickly,  and  Mr.  Birtwell  saw 
it  assume  a  very  grave  aspect.  But  he  kept  on : 

"You  never  heard  anything  so  preposterous. 
Mrs.  Birtwell  actually  proposes  that  we  give  a  cold- 
water-and-lemonade  entertainment.  Ha !  ha !" 

The  smile  he  had  expected  to  provoke  by  this 
sally  did  not  break  into  the  clergyman's  face. 

"But  I  say,"  Mr.  Birtwell  added,  "do  the  thing 
right,  or  don't  do  it  all." 


3 1 8         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"What  do  you  call  right?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott. 

"  The  way  it  is  done  by  other  people — as  we  did 
it  last  year,  for  instance." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  last  year's  entertain 
ment  repeated  if  like  consequences  must  follow," 
replied  Mr.  Elliott,  becoming  still  more  serious. 

Mr.  Birtwell  showed  considerable  annoyance  at 
this. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  a  visit  to  your  friend 
Mrs.  Voss,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"  How  is  she  ?"  Mrs.  Birtwell  asked,  anxiously. 

"  I  do  not  think  she  can  last  much  longer,"  was 
replied. 

Tears  came  into  Mrs.  Birtwell's  eyes  and  fell  over 
her  cheeks. 

"  A  few  days  at  most — a  few  hours,  maybe — and 
she  will  be  at  rest.  She  spoke  of  you  very  ten 
derly,  and  I  think  would  like  to  see  you." 

"  Then  I  will  go  to  her  immediately,"  said  Mrs. 
Birtwell,  rising.  "You  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Elliott. 
I  will  take  the  carriage  and  go  alone,"  she  added, 
glancing  toward  her  husband. 

The  two  men  on  being  left  alone  remained  silent 
for  a  while.  Mr.  Birtwell  was  first  to  speak. 

"  I  have  always  felt  badly,"  he  said,  "  about  the 
death  of  Archie  Voss.  No  blame  attaches  to  us 
of  course,  but  it  was  unfortunate  that  he  had  been 
at  our  house." 

"  Yes,  very  unfortunate,"  responded  the  clergy 
man.  Something  in  his  voice  as  well  as  in  his  man- 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         319 

ner  awakened  an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  the  mind 
of  Mr.  Birtwell. 

They  were  silent  again,  neither  of  them  seeming 
at  his  ease. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  breaking  at  length 
this  silence,  "  to  find  you  by  this  time  over  upon  our 
side." 

"The  cold-water  side,  you  mean?"  There  was 
perceptible  annoyance  in  Mr.  Birtwell's  tone. 

"  On  the  side  of  some  reform  in  our  social  cus 
toms.  Why  can't  you  join  with  your  excellent  wife 
in  taking  the  initiative  ?  You  may  count  on  me  to 
endorse  the  movement  and  give  it  my  countenance 
and  support." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Elliott,  but  I'm  not  your  man," 
returned  Mr.  Birtwell.  He  spoke  with  decision. 
"  I  have  no  desire  to  be  counted  in  with  reform 
ers." 

"  Think  of  the  good  you  might  do." 

"  I  am  not  a  philanthropist." 

*'  Then  think  of  the  evil  you  might  prevent." 

"  The  good  or  the  evil  resulting  from  my  action, 
take  which  side  I  may,  will  be,  very  small,"  said 
Mr.  Birtwell,  with  an  indifference  of  manner  that 
showed  his  desire  to  drop  the  subject.  But  Mr. 
Elliott  was  only  leading  the  way  for  some  plainer 
talk,  and  did  not  mean  to  lose  his  opportunity. 

"  It  is  an  error,"  he  said,  "  to  make  light  of  our 
personal  influence  or  the  consequences  that  may 
flow  from  what  we  do.  The  hand  of  a  chili  is  not 


320         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

too  weak  to  hold  the  match  that  fires  a  cannon. 
When  evil  elements  are  aggregated,  the  force  re 
quired  to  release  them  is  often  very  small.  We  may 
purpose  no  wrong  to  our  neighbor  in  the  indulgence 
of  a  freedom  that  leads  him  into  fiery  temptation; 
but  if  we  know  that  our  freedom  must  of  necessity 
do  this,  can  we  escape  responsibility  if  we  do  not 
deny  ourselves  ?" 

"  It  is  easy  to  ask  questions  and  to  generalize," 
returned  Mr.  Birtwell,  not  hiding  the  annoyance  he 
felt. 

"  Shall  I  come  down  to  particulars  and  deal  in 
facts  ?"  asked  Mr.  Elliott. 

"  If  you  care  to  do  so." 

"  I  have  some  facts — very  sad  and  sorrowful  ones. 
You  may  or  may  not  know  them — at  least  not  all. 
But  you  should  know  them,  Mr.  Birtwell." 

There  was  no  escape  now. 

"You  half  frighten  me,  Mr.  Elliott.  What  are 
you  driving  at?" 

"  I  need  not  refer,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  to  the 
cases  of  Archie  Voss  and  Mr.  Ridley." 

Mr.  Birtwell  raised  his  hands  in  deprecation. 

"Happily,"  continued  Mr.  Elliott,  "Mr.  Ridley 
has  risen  from  his  fall,  and  now  stands  firmer,  I 
trust,  than  ever,  and  farther  away  from  the  reach 
of  temptation,  resting  not  in  human  but  in  divine 
strength.  Archie  is  in  heaven,  where  before  many 
days  his  mother  will  join  him." 

"Why  are  you  saying  this?"  demanded  Mr.  Birt- 


Wounded  in  the  Hottse  of  a  Friend.        321 

well.  "  You  are  going  too  far."  His  face  had  grown 
a  little  pale. 

"  I  say  it  as  leading  to  something  more,"  replied 
the  clergyman.  "  If  there  had  been  no  more  bitter 
fruit  than  this,  no  more  lives  sacrificed,  it  would  have 
been  sad  enough.  But — " 

"Sir,  you  are  trifling,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Birtwell, 
starting  from  his  chair.  "  I  cannot  admit  your  right 
to  talk  to  me  in  this  way." 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Elliotc,  »ay- 
ing  his  hand  upon  his  companion.  "  I  am  not  trifling 
with  you.  As  your  warm  personal  friend  as  well  as 
your  spiritual  counselor,  I  am  here  to-night  to  give 
a  solemn  admonition,  and  I  can  best  do  this  through 
the  communication  of  facts — facts  that  stand  on 
record  for  ever  unchangeable  whether  you  know 
them  or  not.  Better  that  you  should  know  them." 

Mr.  Birtwell  sat  down,  passive  now,  his  hand 
grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair  like  one  bracing  him 
self  for  a  shock. 

"  You  remember  General  Abercrombie  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  what  has  become  of  him  ?" 

"  No.  I  heard  something  about  his  having  been 
dismissed  from  the  army." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  cause  ?" 

"  It  was  drunkenness,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  cause.  He  was  a  fine  officer 
and  a  man  of  high  character,  but  fell  into  habits  of 
intemperance.  Seeing  himself  drifting  to  certain 

V 


322         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

ruin,  he  made  a  vigorous  effort  to  reform  his  life. 
Experience  told  him  that  his  only  safety  lay  in  com 
plete  abstinence,  and  this  rule  he  adopted.  For 
many  months  he  remained  firm.  But  he  fell  at  your 
house.  The  odor  of  wine  that  pervaded  all  the  air 
and  stirred  within  him  the  long-sleeping  appetite, 
the  freedom  he  saw  around  him,  the  invitations  that 
met  him  from  .distinguished  men  and  beautiful 
women,  the  pressure  of  a  hundred  influences  upon 
his  quickened  desires,  bore  him  down  at  last,  and 
he  fell. 

"  I  heard  the  whole  sad  story  to-day,"  continued 
Mr.  Elliott.  "  He  did  not  even  attempt  to  struggle 
up  again,  but  abandoned  himself  to  his  fate.  Soon 
aftei,  he  was  removed  from  the  command  of  this 
department  and  sent  off  to  the  Western  frontier, 
and  finally  court-martialed  and  dismissed  from  the 
army. 

44  To  his  wife,  who  was  deeply  attached  to  him, 
General  Abercrombie  was  when  sober  one  of  the 
kindest  and  most  devoted  of  husbands,  but  a  crazy 
and  cruel  fiend  when  drunk.  It  is  said  that  on  the 
night  he  went  home  from  your  house  last  winter 
strange  noises  and  sudden  cries  of  fear  were  heard 
in  their  room,  and  that  Mrs.  Abercrombie  when  seen 
next  morning  looked  as  if  she  had  just  come  from 
a  bed  of  sickness.  She  accompanied  him  to  the 
West,  but  I  learned  to-day  that  since  his  dismissal 
from  the  army  his  treatment  of  her  has  been  so 
outrageous  and  cruel  that  she  has  had  to  leave  him 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         323 

in  fear  of  her  life,  and  is  now  with  her  friends,  a 
poor  broken-hearted  woman.  As  for  the  general,  no 
one  seems  to  know  what  has  become  of  him." 

"  And  the  responsibility  of  all  this  you  would  lay 
at  my  door?"  said  Mr.  Birtwell,  in  a  husky  voice, 
through  which  quivered  a  tone  of  anger.  "  But  I 
reject  your  view  of  the  case  entirely.  General  Aber- 
crombie  fell  because  he  had  no  strength  of  purpose 
and  no  control  of  his  appetite.  He  happened  to 
trip  at  my  house — that  is  all.  He  would  have  fallen 
sooner  or  later  somewhere." 

"  Happened  to  trip  !  Yes,  that  is  it,  Mr.  Birtwell ; 
you  use  the  right  word.  He  tripped  at  your  house. 
But  who  laid  the  stone  of  stumbling  in  his  path? 
Suppose  there  had  been  no  wine  served  to  your 
guests,  would  he  have  stumbled  on  that  fatal  night  ? 
If  there  had  been  no  wine  served,  would  Archie  Voss 
have  lost  his  way  in  the  storm  or  perished  in  the  icy 
waters  ?  No,  my  friend,  no  ;  and  if  there  had  been 
no  wine  served  at  your  board  that  night,  three  human 
lives  which  have,  alas !  been  hidden  from  us  by 
death's  eclipse  would  be  shedding  light  and  warmth 
upon  many  hearts  now  sorrowful  and  desolate. 
Three  human  lives,  and  a  fourth  just  going  out. 
There  is  responsibility,  and  neither  you  nor  I  can 
escape  it,  Mr.  Birtwell,  if  through  indifference  or 
design  we  permit  ourselves  to  become  the  instru 
ments  of  such  dire  calamities." 

Mr.  Birtwell  had  partly  risen  from  his  chair  in 
making  the  weak  defence  to  which  this  was  a  reply, 


324         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

but  now  sunk  back  with  an  expression  that  was  half 
bewilderment  and  half  terror  on  his  countenance. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  Mr.  Elliott,  what  does  all  this 
mean?"  he  cried.  "Three  lives  and  a  fourth  going 
out,  and  the  responsibility  laid  at  my  door !" 

"  It  is  much  easier  to  let  loose  an  evil  power  than 
to  stay  its  progress,"  said  Mr.  Elliott.  "  The  near 
and  more  apparent  effects  we  may  see,  rarely  the 
remote  and  secondary.  But  we  know  that  the  action 
of  all  forces,  good  or  evil,  is  like  that  of  expanding 
wave-circles,  and  reaches  far  beyond  our  sight.  It 
has  done  so  in  this  case.  Yes,  Mr.  Birtwell,  three 
lives,  and  a  fourth  now  flickering  like  an  expiring 
candle. 

"  I  would  spare  you  all  this  if  I  dared,  if  I  could 
be  conscience-clear,"  continued  Mr.  Elliott  "  But 
I  would  be  faithless  to  my  duty  if  I  kept  silent. 
You  know  the  sad  case  of  Mrs.  Carlton  ?" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  lay  that,  too,  at  my  door !" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Birtwell. 

"  Not  directly ;  it  was  one  of  the  secondary  effects. 
I  had  a  long  conversation  with  Dr.  Hillhouse  to-day. 
His  health  has  failed  rapidly  for  some  months  past, 
and  he  is  now  much  broken  down.  You  know  that 
he  performed  the  operation  which  cost  Mrs.  Carlton 
her  life  ?  Well,  the  doctor  has  never  got  over  the 
shock  of  that  catastrophe.  It  has  preyed  upon  his 
mind  ever  since,  and  is  one  of  the  causes  of  his  im 
paired  health." 

"  I  should  call   that  a  weakness."   returned   Mr 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         32$ 

Birlwell.  "  He  did  his  best.  No  one  is  safe  from 
accidents  or  malign  influences.  I  never  heard  that 
Mr.  Carlton  blamed  him." 

"  Ah,  these  malign  influences !"  said  the  clergy 
man.  "  They  meet  us  everywhere  and  hurt  us  at 
every  turn,  and  yet  not  one  of  them  could  reach  and 
affect  our  lives  if  some  human  hand  did  not  set  them 
free  and  send  them  forth  among  men  to  hurt  and  to 
destroy.  And  now  let  me  tell  you  of  the  interview 
I  had  with  Dr.  Hillhouse  to-day.  He  has  given  his 
consent,  but  with  this  injunction :  we  cannot  speak 
of  it  to  others." 

"  I  will  faithfully  respect  his  wishes,"  said  Mr. 
Birtwell. 

"  This  morning,"  resumed  Mr.  Elliott,  "  I  received 
a  note  from  the  doctor,  asking  me  to  call  and  see 
him.  He  was  much  depressed,  and  said  he  had  long 
wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  me  about  something  that 
weighed  heavily  on  his  mind.  Let  me  give  you  his 
own  words  as  nearly  as  I  am  able  to  remember  them. 
After  some  remarks  about  personal  influence  and  our 
social  responsibilities,  he  said  : 

"'There  is  one  thing,  Mr.  Elliott,  in  which  you 
and  I  and  a  great  many  others  I  could  name  have 
not  only  been  derelict  of  duty,  but  serious  wrong 
doers.  There  is  an  evil  in  society  that  more  than 
all  others  is  eating  out  its  life,  and  you  and  I  have 
encouraged  that  evil  even  by  our  own  example,  call 
ing  it  innocent,  and  so  leading  the  weak  astray  and 
the  unwary  into  temptation.' 

28 


326         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

"  I  understood  what  he  meant,  and  the  shock  of 
his  including  accusation,  his  'Thou  art  the  man,' 
sent  a  throb  of  pain  to  my  heart.  That  I  had  already 
seen  my  false  position  and  changed  front  did  not  les 
sen  the  shock,  for  I  was  only  the  more  sensitive  to 
pain. 

" '  Happily  for  you,  Mr.  Elliott/  he  went  on,  '  no 
such  bitter  fruit  has  been  plucked  by  your  hands  as 
by  mine,  and  I  pray  God  that  it  may  never  be.  For 
a  long  time  I  have  carried  a  heavy  load  here ' — he 
drew  his  hand  against  his  breast — 'heavier  than  I 
have  strength  to  bear.  Its  weight  is  breaking  me 
down.  It  is  no  light  thing,  sir,  to  feel  at  times  that 
you  are  a  murderer.' 

"  He  shivered,  and  there  passed  across  his  face  a 
look  of  horror.  But  it  was  gone  in  a  moment, 
though  an  expression  of  suffering  remained. 

"  '  My  dear  doctor,'  I  interposed,  '  you  have  per 
mitted  yourself  to  fall  into  a  morbid  state.  This 
is  not  well.  You  are  overworked  and  need  change 
and  relaxation.' 

"  '  Yes,'  he  replied,  a  little  mournfully, '  I  am  over 
worked  and  morbid  and  all  that,  I  know,  and  I  must 
have  change  and  relaxation  or  I  shall  die.  Ah,  if  I 
could  get  rid  of  this  heavy  weight!'  He  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  breast  again,  and  drew  a  deep  inspira 
tion.  '  But  that  is  impossible.  I  must  tell  you  all 
about  it,  but  place  upon  you  at  the  same  time  an 
injunction  of  silence,  except  in  the  case  of  one 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         327 

man,  Mr.  Spencer  Birtwell.  He  is  honorable  and 
he  should  know,  and  I  can  trust  him. 

"  '  You  remember,  of  course,  the  entertainment  he 
gave  last  winter  and  some  of  the  unhappy  effects 
that  came  of  it,  but  you  do  not  know  all.  I  was 
there  and  enjoyed  the  evening,  and  you  were  there, 
Mr.  Elliott,  and  I  am  afraid  led  some  into  temptation 
through  our  freedom.  Forgive  me  for  saying  so, 
but  the  truth  is  best. 

" '  Wine  was  free  as  water — good  wine,  tempting 
to  the  taste.  I  meant  to  be  very  guarded,  to  take 
only  a  glass  or  two,  for  on  the  next  day  I  had  a  deli 
cate  and  dangerous  operation  to  perform,  and  needed 
steady  nerves.  But  the  wine  was  good,  and  my  one 
or  two  glasses  only  made  way  for  three  or  four. 
The  temptations  of  the  hour  were  too  much  for  my 
habitual  self-restraint.  I  took  a  glass  of  wine  with 
you,  Mr.  Elliott,  after  I  had  already  taken  more  than 
was  prudent  under  the  circumstances,  another  with 
Mr.  Birtwell,  another  with  General  Abercrombie — 
alas  for  him !  he  fell  that  night  so  low  that  he  has 
never  risen  again — and  another  with  some  one  else. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  put  a  restraint  upon 
yourself  Invitation  and  solicitation  met  you  at 
every  turn.  The  sphere  of  self-indulgence  was  so 
strong  that  it  carried  almost  every  one  a  little  too 
far,  and  many  into  excess  and  debauch.  I  was  told 
afterward  that  at  a  late  hour  the  scene  in  the  sup 
per-room  was  simply  disgraceful.  Boys  and  men, 
and  sadder  still,  young  women,  were  more  than  half 


328         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

drunk,  and  behaved  most  unseemly.     I  can  believe 
this,  for  I  have  seen  such  things  too  often. 

"'  As  I  went  out  from  Mr.  Birtwell's  that  night, 
and  the  cold,  snow-laden  air  struck  into  my  face  on 
crossing  the  pavement  to  my  carnage,  cooling  my 
blood  and  clearing  my  brain,  I  thought  of  Mrs. 
Carlton  and  the  life  that  had  been  placed  in  my 
hands,  and  a  feeling  of  concern  dropped  into  my 
heart.  A  night's  indulgence  in  wine-drinking  was 
a  poor  preparation  for  the  work  before  ine,  in  which 
a  clear  head  and  steady  nerves  were  absolutely  essen 
tial.  How  would  I  be  in  the  morning?  The  ques 
tion  thrust  itself  into  my  thoughts  and  troubled  me. 
My  apprehensions  were  not  groundless.  Morning 
found  me  with  unsteady  nerves.  But  this  was  not 
all.  From  the  moment  I  left  my  bed  until  within 
half  an  hour  of  the  time  when  the  operation  was  to 
begin,  I  was  under  much  excitement  and  deeply  anx 
ious  about  two  of  my  patients,  Mrs.  Voss  and  Mrs. 
Ridley,  both  dangerously  ill,  Mrs.  Voss,  as  you  know, 
in  consequence  of  her  alarm  about  her  son,  and 
Mrs.  Ridley —  But  you  have  heard  all  about  her 
case  and  its  fatal  termination,  and  understand  in  what 
way  it  was  connected  with  the  party  at  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Birtwell's.  The  consequence  of  that  night's  excesses 
met  me  at  every  turn.  The  unusual  calls,  the  immi 
nent  danger  in  which  I  found  Mrs.  Ridley  and  the 
almost  insane  demands  made  upon  me  by  her  despair 
ing  husband,  all  conspired  to  break  down  my  un 
steady  nerves  and  unfit  me  for  the  work  I  had  to  do. 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        329 

When  the  time  came,  there  was  only  one  desperate 
expedient  left,  and  that  was  the  use  of  a  strong  stimu 
lant,  under  the  effect  of  which  I  was  able  to  extract 
the  tumor  from  Mrs.  Carlton's  neck. 

"  '  Alas  for  the  too  temporary  support  of  my  stimu 
lant  !  It  failed  me  at  the  last  moment.  My  sight  was 
not  clear  nor  my  hand  steady  as  I  tied  the  small  arte 
ries  which  had  been  cut  during  the  operation.  One  of 
these,  ligated  imperfectly,  commenced  bleeding  soon 
after  I  left  the  house.  A  hurried  summons  reached 
me  almost  immediately  on  my  return  home,  and 
before  I  had  steadied  my  exhausted  nerves  with  a 
glass  of  wine.  Hurrying  back,  I  found  the  wound 
bleeding  freely.  Prompt  treatment  was  required. 
Ether  was  again  administered.  But  you  know  the 
rest,  Mr.  Elliott.  It  is  all  too  dreadful,  and  I  cannot 
go  over  it  again.  Mrs.  Carlton  fell  another  victim 
';o  excess  in  wine.  This  is  the  true  story.  I  was  not 
blamed  by  the  husband.  The  real  cause  of  the  great 
calamity  that  fell  upon  him  he  does  not  know  to  this 
day,  and  I  trust  will  never  know.  But  I  have  not 
since  been  able  to  look  steadily  into  his  dreary  eyes. 
A  guilty  sense  of  wrong  oppresses  me  whenever  I 
come  near  him.  As  I  said  before,  this  thing  is  break 
ing  me  down.  It  has  robbed  me,  I  know,  of  many 
years  of  professional  usefulness  to  which  I  had  looked 
forward,  and  left  a  bitter  thought  in  my  mind  and  a 
shadow  on  my  feelings  that  can  never  pass  away. 

" '  Mr.  Elliott,'  he  continued,  '  you  have  a  position 
of  sacred  trust.     Your  influence  is  large.     Set  your 

28* 


330         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

self,  I  pray  you,  against  the  evil  which  has  wrought 
these  great  disasters.  Set  yourself  against  the  dan 
gerous  self-indulgence  called  "moderate  drinking." 
It  is  doing  far  more  injury  to  society  than  open  drun 
kenness,  more  a  hundred — nay,  a  thousand — fold. 
If  I  had  been  a  drunkard,  no  such  catastrophe  as  this 
I  have  mentioned  could  have  happened  in  my  prac 
tice,  for  Mr.  Carlton  would  not  then  have  trusted  his 
wife  in  my  hands.  My  drunkenness  would  have 
stood  as  a  warning  against  me.  But  I  was  a  respect 
able  moderate  drinker,  and  could  take  my  wine  with 
out  seeming  to  be  in  any  way  affected  by  it.  But 
sec  how  it  betrayed  me  at  last.'  " 

Mr.  Birtwell  had  been  sitting  during  this  relation 
with  his  head  bowed  upon  his  breast.  When  Mr. 
Elliott  ceased  speaking,  he  raised  himself  up  in  a 
slow,  weary  sort  of  way,  like  one  oppressed  by  fatigue 
or  weak  from  illness. 

"Dreadful,  dreadful!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  never 
dreamed  of  anything  like  this.  Poor  Carlton !" 

"  You  see,"  remarked  Mr.  Elliott,  "  how  easily  a 
thing  like  this  may  happen.  A  man  cannot  go  to 
one  of  these  evening  entertainments  and  indulge 
with  anything  like  the  freedom  to  which  he  is  in 
vited  and  be  in  a  condition  to  do  his  best  work  on 
the  day  following.  Some  of  your  iron-nerved  men 
may  claim  an  exemption  here,  but  we  know  that  all 
Dver-sti mutation  must  leave  the  body  in  some  degree 
unstrung  when  the  excitement  dies  out,  and  they 
suffer  loss  with  the  rest — a  loss  the  aggregate  of 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.        331 

which  makes  itself  felt  in  the  end.  We  have  to 
think  for  a  moment  only  to  satisfy  ourselves  that 
the  wine-  and  brandy-drinking  into  which  men  and 
women  are  enticed  at  dinner-parties  and  fashionable 
entertainments  is  a  fruitful  source  of  evil.  The  effect 
upon  body  and  mind  after  the  indulgence  is  over  is 
seen  in  headaches,  clouded  brain,  nervous  irritation, 
lassitude,  inability  to  think,  and  sometimes  in  a  gene 
ral  demoralization  of  both  the  physical  and  mental 
economy.  Where  there  is  any  chronic  or  organic 
ailment  the  morbid  condition  is  increased  and  some 
times  severe  attacks  of  illness  follow. 

"Are  our  merchants,  bankers,  lawyers,  doctors 
and  men  holding  responsible  trusts  as  fit  for  duty 
after  a  social  debauch — is  the  word  too  strong  ? — as 
before  ?  If  we  reflect  for  a  moment — you  see,  Mr 
Birtwell,  in  what  current  my  thoughts  have  been 
running — it  must  be  clear  to  us  that  after  every 
great  entertainment  such  as  you  and  other  good 
citizens  are  in  the  habit  of  giving  many  business 
and  professional  mistakes  must  follow,  some  of  them 
of  a  serious  character.  All  this  crowds  upon  and 
oppresses  me,  and  my  wonder  is  that  it  did  not  long 
ago  so  crowd  upon  and  oppress  me.  It  seems  as 
though  scales  had  dropped  suddenly  from  my  eyes 
and  things  I  had  never  seen  before  stood  out  in 
clearest  vision." 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THEY  were  still  in  conversation  when  Mrs.  Birt- 
well  returned.  Her  eyes  were  wet  and  her 
face  pale  and  sorrowful.  She  sat  down  beside  her 
husband,  and  without  speaking  laid  her  head  against 
him  and  sobbed  violently.  Mr.  Birtwell  feared  to 
ask  the  question  whose  answer  he  guessed  too  well. 

"  How  is  it  with  our  friend  ?"  Mr.  Elliott  inquired 
as  Mrs.  Birtwell  grew  calmer.  She  looked  up,  an 
swering  sorrowfully  : 

"  It  is  all  over,"  then  hid  her  face  again,  borne 
down  by  excessive  emotion. 

"  The  Lord  bless  and  comfort  his  stricken  ones," 
said  the  minister  as  he  arose  and  stood  for  a  few 
moments  with  his  hand  resting  on  the  bowed  head 
of  Mrs.  Birtwell.  "  The  Lord  make  us  wiser,  more 
self-denying  and  more  loyal  to  duty.  Out  of  sor 
row  let  joy  come,  out  of  trouble  peace,  out  of  suf 
fering  and  affliction  a  higher,  purer  and  nobler  life 
for  us  all.  We  are  in  his  merciful  hands,  and  he  will 
make  us  instruments  of  blessing  if  we  but  walk  in 
the  ways  he  would  lead  us.  Alas  that  we  have 
turned  from  him  so  often  to  walk  -in  our  own  paths 
and  follow  the  devices  of  our  own  hearts  !  His  ways 
are  ways  of  pleasantness  and  his  paths  are  peace, 

332 


Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend.         333 

but  ours  wind  too  often  among  thorns  and  briars,  or 
go  clown  into  the  gloomy  valley  and  shadow  of 
death." 

A  solemn  silence  followed,  and  in  that  deep  hush 
vows  were  made  that  are  yet  unbroken. 

"  If  any  have  stumbled  through  us  and  fallen  by 
the  way,"  said  Mr.  Elliott,  "  let  us  here  consecrate 
ourselves  to  the  work  of  saving  them  if  possible." 

He  reached  his  hand  toward  Mr.  Birtwell.  The 
Danker  did  not  hesitate,  but  took  the  minister's 
extended  hand  and  grasped  it  with  a  vigor  that 
expressed  the  strength  of  his  new-formed  purpose. 

Light  broke  through  the  tears  that  blinded  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Birtwell.  Clasping  both  of  her  hands 
over  those  of  her  husband  and  Mr.  Elliott,  she  cried 
out  with  irrepressible  emotion  : 

"  I  give  myself  to  God  also  in  this,  solemn  con 
secration  !" 

"  The  blessing  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  rest  upon 
it,  and  make  us  true  and  faithful,"  dropped  reveren 
tially  from  the  minister's  lips. 

Somewhere  this  panorama  of  life  must  close. 
Scene  after  scene  might  still  be  given ;  but  if  those 
already  presented  have  failed  to  stir  the  hearts  and 
quicken  the  consciences  of  many  who  have  looked 
upon  them,  rousing  some  to  a  sense  of  danger  and 
others  to  a  sense  of  duty,  it  were  vain  to  display 
another  canvas ;  and  so  we  leave  our  work  as  it 
stands,  but  in  the  faith  that  it  will  do  good.  Here- 


334         Wounded  in  the  House  of  a  Friend. 

after  we  may  take  it  up  again  and  bring  into  view 
once  more  some  of  the  actors  in  whom  it  is  impos 
sible  not  to  feel  a  strong  interest.  Life  goes  on, 
though  the  record  of  events  be  not  given, — life, 
with  its  joys  and  sorrows,  its  tempests  of  passion 
and  its  sweet  calms,  its  successes  and  its  failures,  its 
all  of  good  and  evil ;  goes  on  though  we  drop  the 
pencil  and  leave  our  canvas  blank. 

It  is  no  pleasant  task  to  paint  as  we  have  been 
painting,  nor  as  we  must  still  paint  should  the  work 
now  dropped  ever  be  resumed.  But  as  we  take  a 
last  look  at  some  of  the  scenes  over  which  we  now 
draw  the  curtain  we  see  strong  points  of  light  and 
a  promise  of  good  shining  clear  through  the  shadows 
of  the  evil. 


THE  KMD. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)45l 


N2  429841 


Arthur,  T.S. 
Danger. 


PS1039 

A77 

D3 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


